


For My Hands Hold No Guns

by hubrisandwax



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (to non-major characters), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Bipolar Ian, Canon-Typical Violence, Chicago (City), F/F, F/M, M/M, mentions of attempted sexual assault, mentions of domestic violence, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From perched on the lip of the rooftop, Chicago at night is varying shades of shattered yellow and grey, the colors shredded and pressed against a virescent sky. The city glitters, glassy, iridescent, like the gem it very much isn’t.</p><p>Out there are all the people he has saved, the people he will save. This is his family. His city. He’s a patriot with a cause.</p><p>He can be what this city needs.</p><p>---</p><p>(Or the one where there are superheroes and they take on the night one mugging, one drug run, one killer at a time)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Exist

**Author's Note:**

> first serious multichap! i'll update the warnings and pairings as the story progresses, and write any potential triggers in the endnotes. i'm trying to make this fic _sort of_ realistic, despite the whole, y'know, ~superheroes~ thing, haha, so i've drawn from a lot of influences and sources in order to fulfil that aim (and not just creative), so at some point i'll make a list on my tumblr and attach it to the fic.
> 
> i have no strict posting schedule but i hope to update it every week to two weeks or so.
> 
> fic title taken from the Death Cab for Cutie song [Hold No Guns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aE42XIiAbn8); chapter title taken from the Arcade Fire [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRXc_-c_9Xc) of the same name.
> 
> HUGE thank yous to both [Honey](archiveofourown.org/users/purrugly) and [Jen](http://wehangout.tumblr.com) for being the best writing support anyone could ask for (seriously these guys deserve a medal), [Elena](http://northsfire.tumblr.com) for her encouragement, and the rest of my friends on tumblr for being such excellent cheerleaders!!! ily guise ♥

 

> It is certain that, apparently, though I have seen the same actor a hundred times, I shall not for that reason know him any better personally. Yet if I add up the heroes he has personified and if I say that I know him a little better at the hundredth character counted off, this will be felt to contain an element of truth. For this apparent paradox is also an apologue. There is a moral to it. It teaches that a man defines himself by his make-believe as well as by his sincere impulses. There is thus a lower key of feelings, inaccessible to the heart but partially disclosed by the acts they imply and the attitudes of mind they assume.
> 
>                      Albert Camus,  _The Myth of Sisyphus_

 

 

In later years, they’ll ask: _did you know what you were getting into, back in the beginning_? And, _if you knew then what you do now, would your actions have been different_?

He’ll shift uncomfortably, press a hand against his face, and say, _It’s not that black and white_.

 

* * *

  

It is. The answer will always be no.

 

* * *

 

He can feel the sweat drip down the valley of his spine where the spandex doesn’t cling. Everything smells like rust and damp concrete. There’s blood on his fingers and blood smeared over his zygomatic arch and blood gluing the suit to his abdominals, and he feels ridiculous, standing in the shadows of a convenience store parking lot to avoid the police, dressed in fucking spandex and covered in blood.

But. _But_. This is what he does.

The cops know he’s here – they eyeballed him when they first arrived on-scene – so he’s sticking to the, I was heading to a costume party when I stepped in to break up a fight, line. It’s been difficult, because after three months of minor page six articles and a bunch of classified messages from people he’s helped, the media’s finally started to catch on. That means greater exposure. That means that the cops might know who he is, or what he is, and while there’s no direct law against ‘vigilantism’, he doesn’t want to get caught on some trumped up charge because he’s a nuisance.

Each time he has to dial 911 at a scene he tries to slip away quietly before emergency services arrive. He wasn’t actually planning on involving the cops this time, but a knife had been pulled by man #1 about thirty seconds after he’d arrived. Knives always complicate fistfights, at least once he’s involved in them. He’s learned that the hard way. Is still learning, as he stands clutching at a wound on his forearm, watching man #2 being carried away on a stretcher.

One day, probably soon, he won’t be able to call the cops at all. It’s a daunting thought.

Within the next few minutes, the police are going to want a statement he’s not willing to give. It’s like the army all over again, every time, and it's disconcerting, claustrophobic; it makes him feel vulnerable. Red and blue light saturates everything in pulsating waves, the colors giving him a headache, adding to the surrealism of the moment. The EMTs appear like apparitions behind him. He tries to argue with them when they attempt to touch him, tells them that it’s okay, he’s a certified EMT himself and is training to be a paramedic; he can suture his own arm (or really, heal himself). They can leave him alone. He’s more upset about the suit, to be honest – bloodstains are a shit to wash out, and he’ll have to reattach another arm to the bodice, because patches and extra stitching make for unnecessary weakness, and split suits, in turn, leave skin unprotected. He doesn’t wear the goddamn thing to look pretty - that’s for sure. Comic books and movies never tell you how hot and scratchy and genuinely uncomfortable spandex actually is when pressed against sweaty skin.

For now, though, he’s still stuck in the middle of this stupid parking lot, worrying about how many hours of sleep he’ll get. There’s an anatomy test tomorrow morning that counts for a good portion of his grade, and he needs to be home by eleven to maintain his sleeping pattern for his meds.

Eventually, when Man #2 distracts the EMTs by trying to violently pull away from his bonds in the back of the ambulance, he sneaks away into the shadows and breaks into a run. Once he feels he’s far enough away not to be pursued, he stops to lean against the wall of a building and inspect his arm. The cut isn’t very deep - maybe an eighth of an inch, and the blade only just nicked the muscle. Easy. He closes his eyes, rests his hand across the wound, and visualizes a forearm - his forearm, with its slashed skin - and imagines the cells of the dermis, the adipose tissue beneath, the damaged brachioradialis muscle healing, closing, knitting together until the skin is smooth and pale once again. The edges of the lesion grow warm under his palm. He opens his eyes.

Beneath his hand, there’s no longer any indication that there was a cut there at all except for the drying blood that streaks his arm, the skin as pale and unmarked as ever. He releases a breath he didn’t really know he was holding, relieved - sometimes, he worries that maybe his powers will no longer work. That he’ll do something wrong. That he’ll glance down to see blood still leaking from a wound, or, worse, more damage than he’d originally intended, such as a disintegrated bone. It’s mildly terrifying.

Gathering himself, trying to center his thoughts, he checks his burner for the time. He has thirty minutes to get home, takes his meds, and sleep before his oatmeal brain makes short work of his mind and reflexes. Just enough time to change and make it back on the L.

Tonight, he’s been patrolling Old Town and Lincoln Park. The heat is bleeding from the city as summer comes to an end, but the air is still sticky and humid. It’s almost oppressive, like breathing underwater, and mostly he wants a fan and a comfortable bed. It’s almost too warm to parkour, even.

Almost.

Just before he reaches the dumpster where he stashed his civilian clothes, as he’s about to run up another wall to reach a shortcut, he sees something that makes that makes him stop.

Up ahead, a short dude with dark hair is being cornered by a group of three other men. They’re yelling slurs and curses at him, advancing, ranting something about drugs, and the dude looks like he’s trying to give back as good as he’s getting.

 _Fuck off, assholes_ , he manages to make out. Stepping to the side, he watches on in the shadow of a building, waiting for an opportunity to intervene. It could be a gang rivalry, which, no, but he feels like he can’t just leave three against one.

He sneaks forward, keeping as close to the wall as possible, footsteps light, but it doesn’t really matter because they’re so caught up in their exchange that they likely won’t notice him anyway. He feels his heart rate increasing, his breathing losing its steady pace; he fucking hates anything gang related. In his first week of … doing whatever it is he does, he’d tried to break up an altercation between the Disciples and a smaller, lesser known group. It was the worst fight of his life.

Right now, the smaller man looks very angry, and he reaches forward to snag the wrist of one of the gang members. Ian’s surprise clearly mirrors that of the dude who’s being touched, because it’s not an aggressive move. It’s not even a defensive move. The gang member yells; the others move into orthodox boxing stances; the short man removes his hand, balls his fists -

And proceeds to block every single punch thrown at him, dodging and weaving, as if he can preempt every move. The guy doesn’t look so much like a trained fighter as someone who’s managing some pretty lucky moves. It’s disconcerting, that’s for sure.

The dude might be blocking, but he’s not managing to land any punches himself. He’ll likely tire soon. If this fight was only three guys, it would be easy to disable them all very quickly, but the victim in this circumstance is a wildcard. They’ll all be carrying guns - that’s a given - and are aiming to maim rather than kill, or they would have already fired.

Guns are always messy as fuck. They not only cause collateral, but also severe, possibly even fatal damage to his body if he can’t pre-empt the bullet and make sure it avoids his head or his heart. When guns are drawn, he’s not too fussy about, say, disintegrating a bone, or lacerating an arm (both of which he can heal, later) to defend himself or others. Generally, fights never reach that stage - they’re over pretty quickly.

The victim's technique starts to get sloppy; Ian needs to make a split-second decision. It becomes clear very quickly what he needs to do.

Sprinting from the shadows, he grabs the first guy he reaches and locks him into a sleeper hold. Ian pulls him away immediately, heart pounding, the body lax against his grip. The fighters notice instantly and shift, each – except for the short guy – pulling their guns, aiming them at Ian.

“What’s wrong with him?” one of the guys says, voice tight, gesturing to his fallen comrade.

Ian says: “He’s just unconscious,” very quickly. Really, the guy’s had the blow flow restricted through his carotid and jugular, reducing the oxygen supply to his brain. Ian doesn’t think that they’d be interested in hearing that, though.

He really fucking doesn’t want to be shot.

“This was supposed to be easy,” another says, his tone slow and drawling. Up close, his face is a patchwork of scar tissue. “I’m only paid to take on the Milkovich kid. The fuck are you?”

Releasing the dude, who slumps in an awkward sprawl of limbs to the concrete, Ian steps forward, hands raised. “An interested party.” He keeps his eyes trained on the guns. His gaze flickers between each of them, watching for muscle movement, and he tries to steady his breathing. One of them twitches his head to the right; another flexes his fingers in obvious silent communication. Ian doesn’t trust them. He shifts his weight, own hand falling to the taser he keeps in his utility belt. Carrying a gun himself would complicate things. It’s easier – less illegal – to disintegrate an adversary’s bone.

Right now, though, he’s running on adrenaline and instinct. There’s no space to think in situations like this - no time to step forward and press a hand to someone’s exposed skin. One wrong move and Ian’s body is another crime statistic.

As this exchange occurs, Mikovich seems to be trying to make his escape. He’s edging out from behind the men, face pinched in concentration, lips moving with no sound as if he’s mouthing something; Ian can see him out of the corner of his eye. Trying to run is probably a death wish, though – the mercenaries are unlikely to let him go. Ian could try and hurt one by firing as a distraction and rolling towards the man closest to him, but it’s risky as fuck and means he’s left unprotected. Especially if he can’t see a potential bullet - if it hits a vital organ...

Ian’s used to thinking on his feet, and his assessment take approximately a second or two. He’s about to roll when the face of one of the members goes slack, like he’s stroking out, and the gun drops from his grip.

His partner starts. Turns on his heels, clearly panicked. There’s a _bang_. A thud. A scream.

Milkovich has been shot.

The gang scatters, then; the stroke-guy snaps-to, like he’s waking from a dream, and the other screams at him to run.

Ian tries to reach out, to grab on to any of them, but he’s caught by surprise as one of them lunges at him, hitting his head. He falls to the concrete. Dark spots erupt at the edges of his vision; he can feel his pulse pound painfully, rabbit-quick, in his temples.

Pulling himself up, he opens his eyes in time to see the group disappear around a building with their unconscious member slung over another’s shoulders.

Relief hits Ian like a truck. He tries to breathe deeply, slowly, to calm himself down. He fucking hates gangs.

Pushing a hand to his forehead, he checks that his head’s okay – no concussion, which is good, because he can’t heal brain stuff – and walks on hands and knees over to Milkovich, who’s trying to look at his damaged leg.

“Did the bullet …” Ian says quickly, before he realizes that yes, it did hit the side of Milkovich’s thigh. Fuck. He needs to – help.

Milkovich looks across at him, his eyes bright blue and narrowed. Distrustful. “Really, though - who the fuck are you?” He’s angry, but he also looks fucking terrified. “Why are you helping -”  He hisses in pain. Ian tries to move, to touch him, to heal him, but Milkovich flinches away. He lets his palm drop.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Ian says. “Can I call an ambulance?” The blood is beginning to flower over the concrete, the air heavy with the scent of iron. Milkovich scoffs.

“No insurance. And they’ll just call the fuzz.” He’s grimacing.

Ian’s scared. Really fucking scared. There’s a lot of blood. “Can I … I can help, you know? Roll over.”

Mickey arches a brow at him. “Why.” He breaths the word out through his teeth.

“You’re bleeding out, man. Just let me …” Ian gestures helplessly with his hands. Indecision passes across Milkovich’s face before he shifts his weight over and exposes the bullet wound on his leg. Ian moves forward, and, without hesitation, rips open Milkovich’s jeans. He yells out in protest.

“What the fuck, man. These are good pants.”

Ian ignores him, choosing instead to lay his palms close to the bullet hole. On skin-to-skin contact, Milkovich’s body sings to him; Ian can hear the rush of blood in Milkovich’s arteries and veins, the rasp of air through his lungs, the way his bones shift and pop, the fast wingbeat rhythm of his heart.

“I’m not sure what kind of damage has been done.” There’s no exit wound. Ian closes his eyes, this time imagining the muscular structure of the upper leg where the bullet hit: the biceps femoris, the adipose tissue, the dermis. Sees the cells stitching themselves back together, forcing the bullet out.

Milkovich yelps. Ian opens his eyes.

No puncture wound. Nothing out of the ordinary. There’s only crusted blood, a bullet, and ripped jeans.

His heart rate’s finally, finally slowing.

“Jesus fuck,” Milkovich says, moving his leg, looking awed. “What the fuck did you just do?”

 Ian sits back on his calves, suddenly woozy. He needed to be home, like, half an hour ago, and expending energy on healing doesn’t help. His head’s pounding. “Nothing. I gotta go.” Rising, he stumbles a little before he manages to right himself.

“You okay?” Milkovich is getting to his feet and touching his leg as he goes, like he can’t quite believe that it’s healed. Like he’s expecting the skin to split open again. He’s attractive, Ian realizes, now his head isn’t filled with thoughts of danger or death - he stops himself before he gets too carried away.

He says, instead, “I’m fine, I just …” and smiles. “Glad you’re okay.” The statement is redundant, but Ian’s not great at leaving when there aren’t paramedics or police to distract from the awkwardness.

Milkovich is silent, as if he’s not really sure what to say, still slightly shell-shocked, before: “You look fuckin’ stupid, by the way.” It’s more a grumble than anything else. “In case you give a shit.”

“I don’t.” Ian figures that’s his thank you, grins, and is about to disappear into the shadows, when he’s struck by a thought. “What happened to the guy, before? When he looked like a he’d stroked out?”

Milkovich suddenly looks scared, uncomfortable, like there’s a secret there, but his face closes off as quickly as the expression hit. “What’s it to you?” He’s stiff, a bit like a dog with its hackles raised. Ian’s too tired to argue - he can see he’s lost before the fight’s even started - so he shrugs, smiles warily, and walks off.

As he rounds the corner, he catches Milkovich flipping him the bird.

 

* * *

 

When Mickey reaches the train, the first thing he does is google “masked vigilante Chicago.”

He tells himself it’s because, as someone who kind of works in crime, he should know about potential enemies. It’s totally not because the dude has the best fucking ass Mickey’s ever seen. Not at all.

It’s quiet on the train, only sound the dull thrum of the wheels against the tracks. It allows Mickey to try and kick the last of the panic that won’t quite fuck off. Clutching his phone tightly in one hand, fingers of the other digging through the material of his ripped jeans and into his thigh, he closes his eyes and breathes deeply until he feels calm.

He opens his eyes to the fractured lights of Chicago city streaking past the glass and the fuck you capitalist pigs scrawled across the train car wall. Familiarity.

He’s still not sure what to make of the evening. The last ten minutes seems like a fever dream; no one would believe Mickey if he said some dude in a dark blue suit with the reddest hair he’d ever seen prevented him from being beaten up, got him shot, and then fucking healed him. Or whatever. Mickey’s head’s still reeling. If Mickey didn’t have ... abilities himself, he’d think he’d had a bad trip on some drugs he’d forgotten he’d taken, it was that weird.

When the dude touched Mickey, colour had exploded behind Mickey’s eyelids, eclipsed then by a white light that transformed into his usual sense-thought-perception. He’d felt warmth and concern without even actively focusing on the dude’s thoughts, which never happens. Mickey is definitely getting better at the whole reading impressions of other people’s consciousness thing, but he still has to think about it, like with the gangsters. Touch them, first, to have a link, and then focus really fucking hard on what they’re planning next. Super-dude’s feelings, instead, were just there.

It’s probably because he’s got powers, too.

The only real indication that anything happened at all is the blood that is flaking as it dries on his skin and jeans, and the rip in the denim that spans his knee to his upper thigh.

Google has loaded on his on his phone when he glances down at the screen. There are a lot of hits, some related to comics, others to things that are entirely unrelated, but the sixth entry on the list is a link to a news article that has been published in the last week. Mickey hits it. “The Wraith of Chicago:” the headline begins, “Masked Terrorist or Quiet Hero?”

It’s sensationalist, that’s for sure, but Mickey’s too curious to find something more reliable. He keeps reading.

 

> _By Jasmine Hollander_
> 
> _A potentially dangerous masked man is stalking the streets of Chicago, an anonymous source has told the Sun-Times._
> 
> _He’s been seen mostly around the loop and its outer-suburbs, dressed a skin-tight navy suit and utility belt, and has been called 'the Wraith of Chicago' by alternate news sources._
> 
> _“I don’t feel safe while he’s stalking the streets,” the source continued, “involving himself in crime and beating people up._
> 
> _Vigilantes belong locked up with the rest of the criminals._
> 
> _Leave justice to the justice system, I say.”_
> 
> _This is the first time Chicago has experienced any such phenomenon._
> 
> _However, George Simmons, 68, from Lakeview sent a letter to the paper last week thanking a ‘masked stranger’ for protecting him._
> 
> _According to Mr. Simmons, he was being held at knifepoint until the suited man disarmed his assailant, pulling him away and calling the police._
> 
> _“If he hadn’t saved me, I could’ve died,” Mr Simmons stated._
> 
> _The jury is out on whether this mystery mask is an altruistic hero or a violent terrorist with vicious motivations._
> 
> _The police are yet to comment._
> 
> _Let us know what you think._

 

Mickey pulls his lip between his teeth and looks up at the poster across from him, eyes looking but not really seeing. Well, shit. This… complicates things.

He gets off at his stop and walks the two blocks to the apartment he shares with Mandy. He’ll have to look into this further, and ask his uncle why the fuck some new gang sent members after him to threaten him. They’re unlikely to go after him again, at least, once his uncle knows about it, but it’s fucking annoying, even if was a one-off. Mickey avoids that shit like he avoids cheap strawberry beer from Sweden. That shits rots you from your insides out.

Really, the whole night was fucking dumb from start to finish.

“Tonight was a fucking shitshow,” Mickey says as he stalks into the apartment and slams the door behind him. Mandy peers at him from over the couch, eyes red, lids low, hair mussed like she’d been sleeping. Judge Judy reruns are playing on the television.

“What the fuck, Mick?” she says, yawning, stretching, before she glares over at him.

“I was stalked by a group of fucking gangsters,” he says, opening the fridge, trying to find something to occupy himself with like food or goddamn beer, “who shot me -” he slams the fridge door closed, “- and then some asshole decided to -“ he bites off the words quickly, and amends, “- tried to call the fucking cops.” He pulls the tab off the can of beer, still not sure what to fucking think about the red-haired dude in the mask and superhero suit. The Wraith or whatever. “Total fucking shitshow.”

“You got shot?” Mandy says, sounding alarmed, suddenly sanding only a few paces away from Mickey at the edge of the kitchen. Fuck. He didn’t think that one through.

“Almost shot.” Close enough.

She glances at the blood on his jeans, eyebrows raised. “How many were there?”

“Fucking three, and I forgot my gun. I only went out to give Iggy some weed.”

“You manage okay?”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, was doin’ fine ’till the asshole turned up. Totally fucked shit up.” Mostly. As long as the guys tired before Mickey did, he would’ve been okay, or so he tries to tell himself.

Mandy says, “Really? Against four?” and frowns.

“Yea, it’s easy when you know who’s gonna do what next.” Mickey smirks. Mentally difficult, maybe - it makes his head hurt - but he still did okay.

Suddenly the television remote is flying at his head, and before he can stop it, it strikes his temple.

“What the fuck, Mandy?”

“Showoff,” she says, rolling her eyes. She saunters back to the couch.

“You can’t just fucking _telekinesis_ shit at me when you’re pissed off.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.” Flopping back against the cushions, she says, “I’m guessing the blood isn’t yours, then.”

Mickey sits down next to her and takes a swill. “Nah.”

They sit in silence for a bit. Mickey sends a text to his uncle about being tailed and pretends to watch Judge Judy. The apartment’s dark; the only light comes from the television, flickering across Mandy’s face as she curls in on herself, casting the apartment with an eerie glow. She’s looking better, happier, than she has in a while, and Mickey knows he did the right thing by moving them into the city, even if it does mean he has to cut in on deals and work two dead-end jobs.

Touching her thigh briefly, Mickey stands and goes to change his pants.

Tonight, everything can wait. He’ll deal with all the fucking bullshit in the morning.

 

* * *

 

By the time he’s nearing his apartment, Ian’s fucking exhausted.

He lives on Warren Boulevard, near Garfield Park, and it’s about a thirty minute journey from the city. Thirty minutes too long, really. His face still feels tight from the medical adhesive he uses to attach the mask, skin irritated, and he’s sweaty and disgusting and all he wants is to grab some food, shower, take his meds, and sleep.

Unfortunately, life’s rarely that kind.

Lip’s in the kitchen when Ian arrives, doing god knows what at ten thirty pm on a thursday, and Ian rolls his eyes, dumps his bag by the door, and heads straight for the shower.

“Oi, Ian,” Lip says. Pretending not to hear, Ian pulls his tee over his head and turns the faucet on. Lip appears behind him anyway, holding an egg flip, and all Ian wants to do is sleep, goddamn it.

“Yeah?” Ian says tiredly, impatiently, undoing the zip on his pants.

“Johanna and I are, er, going through a rough patch, or somethin’.” Lip scratches at his hairline with his thumb, egg flip wobbling dangerously, and raises his eyebrows. “D’you mind if I crash for a bit?”

Ian looks pointedly at the couch behind Lip, where all his brother’s stuff is spread haphazardly over the sparse furniture. “Whatever,” he says, shrugging, and tugs off his underwear. “You can move in here permanently for all I care, man, as long as you let me get some sleep.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Lip says, actually looking sheepish. He leaves the bathroom. Ian worries that he can smell something burning in the kitchen and sighs before stepping over the lip of the tub and standing under the spray.

When he emerges, Lip’s got something grey and slimy-looking plated up. Ian pulls a face. He goes into his room, changes into sweatpants and an over-washed tee, and wanders back out into the living-room-slash-kitchen.

Lip’s standing by the fridge, and he offers Ian one of the plates. “‘Least I can do for Chicago’s own hero, right?” he says sarcastically, and Ian grins as he takes the food, rolling his eyes again. “What is it they’re calling you these days? The Wraith?”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole.”

“Wanna take this to the roof?” Lip says, gesturing outside the window at the fire escape.

They end up scrambling to the top with their plates, sitting on the ledge with their feet dangling down. Lip hands Ian a soda and pops the tab on his own beer. It’s … good, just the two of them, and always reminds Ian of their shared teenage years: the joints split in empty cars; the trouble they got into as partners in crime; all the times Lip had Ian’s back and Ian had his.

Not a lot has changed, really.

They eat in silence. When they’re done, Lip lights a cigarette and offers one to Ian, who shakes his head. The city breathes beneath them: the asthmatic wheeze of traffic, horns blaring in dissonant melody as milky moonlight splinters across the looming skyscrapers. Ian leans forward to watch the people move across the streets - late-night workers head home after their shifts, lethargy evident in each of their steps, while others head out for the evening, dressed in club-wear and talking too loudly. It’s important that he reminds himself of why he does this - why he consistently puts himself into dangerous situations to protect strangers, why he often compromises his safety for the welfare of others.

And there’s a sort of languid poetry to mediocrity, he thinks; a gentle ease to the machinations of routine. Sometimes, he misses it.

“Tough night?” Lip says, looking out over the city, breathing smoke out through his nose. Ian shrugs and leans back on his elbows to look up at the sky.

“Not really,” he says. “A mugging. A liquor-store holdup. Some dude being chased in an alley by a gang.”

Taking another drag, Lip says, “Huh,” through the smoke. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Still working on tuning a radio to the police broadcast.”

“My number one Intel guy.” Ian laughs. Lip hits his shoulder back and snorts.

“Whatever, asshole. You got no-one else.”

Ian says, “I know,” trying to sound self-assured, but he thinks it comes out as vaguely wistful instead. He ignores it, pursing his lips, and watches a satellite track its way across the sky. Lip is silent until he clears his throat.

“When did you, er,” Lip says, and his voice is uncharacteristically quiet, unsure. He clears his throat again. “When did you, y’know, know you were gay? How’d you figure it out?”

Ian looks across at Lip and raises his eyebrows. Sitting up, he stretches before saying, “I dunno, man. Guess I always knew.” He shrugs. “When guys were talking about which girls they wanted to sleep with, I was more interested in watching their asses than I was joining in on their conversations.”

Lip frowns, like that isn’t the answer he was looking for, and he says, “Yeah. Sure.” The words are distant, like he’s not really paying attention to what he’s saying. Ian gave up trying to work out Lip’s intentions a long time ago. Instead, he turns back towards the cityscape.

Soon, he’ll have to go inside to take his meds and sleep, but for now, the view is stunning. From perched on the lip of the rooftop, Chicago at night is varying shades of shattered yellow and grey, the colors shredded and pressed against a virescent sky. The city glitters, glassy, iridescent, like the gem it very much isn’t.

Out there are all the people he has saved, the people he will save. This is his family. His city. He’s a patriot with a cause.

He can be what this city needs.


	2. Freckle, freckle, what makes you so special?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Mandy get a call for a job. Ian has an unexpected encounter. Little goes to plan for anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i've been preoccupied with writing this chapter, but i promised [Peyton](http://www.montygreening.tumblr.com) birthday fic, i'm dedicating this chapter to her. i am writing her something proper, too, but i hope this is okay/suffices in the interim :) ♥. 
> 
> as such, the title is taken from "w.a.m.s" by Fall Out Boy ;).
> 
> huge thanks to [Jen](http://www.wehangout.tumblr.com), yet again, for being incredible.
> 
> there are **warnings** for this chapter. they're not really spoilers, so if you're concerned: Ian stops a girl from being sexually assaulted, and intervenes in a domestic abuse situation. brief mentions only; nothing explicit.

Mickey gets the call as he’s preparing dinner.

Mandy’s working the afternoon shift at a diner a few blocks away from the apartment, so Mickey thinks it’s her when his cell starts chirping on the counter, because sometimes she rings him as her shift’s ending to ask if he wants anything picked up on her way home. Reaching blindly, he tries to grab his phone as he focuses on making sure the pasta sauce doesn’t fucking burn, his fingers accidentally swiping to answer before he can check the caller ID. He turns the heat down on the stovetop and raises the cell to his ear.

“Yeah?”

His blood runs cold at the voice on the other end.

The conversation’s short. He focuses on the instructions, grunts appropriate responses, and dumps his cell on the opposite end of the counter once it's over. Exhaling through his teeth, rubbing a hand against his mouth, he concentrates on not fucking up the food and tries to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.

It not like he wasn’t expecting this.

Mickey's okay with being hired help for drops and laundering and scams and all the other shitty jobs no one else wants. He doesn't want himself or Mandy caught up in all the big bullshit, though, okay, because he's spent the last five fucking years making sure that they keep the hell away from it. No gangs; no guns; no mobs.

Gang politics isn’t the only significant issue when it comes to big jobs. There's also the possibility that they’ll run into Terry.

Hand shaking where it's gripping the spoon, Mickey figures dinner's as good as done and dumps the undercooked pasta into two bowls, topping them with the sauce. He puts Mandy's in the microwave, grabs a beer or four from the fridge, and heads to the couch to turn on the TV.

By the time Mandy gets home, Mickey's gazing somewhere into the middle distance, eyes unfocused as _Jeopardy!_ plays, half finished pasta mostly over his lap. The room is dark and too-warm and stinks like stale smoke and tomatoes.

“Hey Mick,” Mandy says as she closes the door and hangs up her apron, startling Mickey out of his … _whatever_.

“Food in the microwave,” he says, voice rough. Realising his own is all over his lap, he swears under his breath and tries to scoop it back into the bowl.

Mandy comes back a few seconds later holding the dish with her eyebrows raised. “You good?”

“It’s just - fucking hell,” Mickey says, running a hand through his hair, down to his neck, ignoring that it’s covered in sticky red. He sighs. “We got a job.”

Smiling, Mandy sits down next to him and starts twirling pasta onto her fork. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s -” the words stick in his mouth like cotton balls and he tries to breathe like the fucking internet’s told him to do. “Air shipment. Sunday morning at the docks.”

Mandy pauses, saying nothing. She drops the fork, hand moving to cup the bottom of the bowl, knees pressed together as her brow furrows. Mickey snorts humorlessly. “Oh,” she says. Her mouth pinches, her jaw tightening.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, and rolls his lip between his teeth. “Look, Mandy -”

“No.” The word is quiet but defiant. “I’m doing this.” Picking up her fork, she resumes eating.

Mickey doesn’t know what to do. They can’t turn the job down, because he and Mandy really need the money, and worse, it would be an insult to his uncle. At the same time, though, it’s a huge risk. There’s gang stuff to consider; the dangers of being involved in a shipment; something getting back to Terry; and that fucking vigilante.

Fuck, it’s been almost a month, but Mickey can’t stop worrying about what the Wraith means for his life in crime. Things are gonna be more difficult now there’s someone who thinks they’re the fucking _Batman_ or whatever stalking the streets. Beaten up and left to rot in some gutter - or, worse, _prison_ \- is not somewhere Mickey wants himself or Mandy to end up. Mandy deserves better after all the shit she’s been through, that’s for sure, and so does he, damn it. They’ve fought for this. Some self-righteous dude in fucking spandex isn’t gonna ruin that.

Mickey crushes his empty can in his fist and says, “Whatever.”

Arguing with Mandy is sometimes like trying to play fucking Jenga while wearing an oven mitt, especially when she knows what she wants, so Mickey gives up before he’s even started. And to influence her thoughts would piss her off more than it would be worth. Popping the tab open on a new beer, he downs half of it in a few gulps, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and lights a cigarette.

 _Jeopardy!_ has turned into the news; some story about a rich dude giving money to who-the-fuck-cares what. Mickey tries to stop his leg from jerking, anxiety dancing along his nerves, but it's clearly wasted effort. He stands and walks towards his room so he can pull out his best gun from the bottom of his wardrobe. It needs a clean.

So does his face, if the tomato streaks are anything to go by; he sees his reflection out of the corner of his eye as he enters his room, reflected back at him from the small mirror that's hanging on the wall. Swearing under his breath, he finds the gun and heads towards the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

He listens to _Everything Hits At Once_ , the tap tap tapping of the fan’s rotor blades hitting every off-beat, his hands pulling on the spandex tights, fingers absently matching the rhythm, own voice a high, syrupy interweave against the notes. There is leg hair poking through the navy fabric again, he notices distractedly; he needs to shave.

The track changes. A couple in the apartment next door begin a chorus of moans, the headboard of the bed starting to bang an irregular tattoo against the wall; an engine coughs to a stop outside on the street; the news plays on the television in the living room, something about a wealthy philanthropist’s contribution to a charity. The voices are tinny and high as they compete with the music.

The halogen bulb above his mirror casts everything into overexposed, desaturated shades of varying blue-grey, yellow-white, reminding him of every hospital visit he’s ever suffered. His ritual before he heads out is essential to him compartmentalising before facing the night. It’s also in these moments of collected calm that he manages to pull his jumbled mind to linear streams of thought. The preparation reminds him of years spent in high school JROTC, a role to perform that is disconnected, in part, from himself. The costume might be a little ridiculous, but it’s more symbolic than entirely practical – and a strange sort of comfort.

He smooths the mask across the bridge of his nose with medical adhesive. Pushes wax through his brushed hair to flatten it, removing any stray curls. The bulb flickers above his head.

The suit has begun to feel like a second skin. It’s been said that you can never truly know yourself, but, well, Ian knows _this_.

 

* * *

 

Pacing the apartment, Mickey tugs at his hair and lights another cigarette.

Mandy's asleep; she disappeared into her room at about 10:30, saying that she had class early the next morning. Mickey reached for the laptop stashed under the couch shortly after and did as much research on the fucking Wraith as possible, because he wants to be prepared.

The news websites don't have a lot of information. Mostly, it's speculation based on the opinions of those the dude's helped, along with some letters to the papers and obscure messages in the classifieds - a lot of which has been scanned and uploaded to social media websites.

The Wraith’s pretty popular on the Internet, despite conflicting media opinion. A lot of fan stuff exists. There’s a Facebook page. Twitter accounts. A site called tumblr with things called tags where people post fucking art of the dude along with their wordy opinions about him. Mickey's used the sites as a means of sorting through what news stuff is genuine and what's just shit, because there’s a lot of crap he just can’t be bothered dealing with. There’s nothing about special ‘powers’ or healing, only that the vigilante’s a trained fighter, potentially dangerous, and particularly interested in helping women, kids, and the elderly.

Oh, and also, in Mickey’s opinion, he cuts a pretty fuckin’ fine figure.

Mickey’s heard nothing about it from his uncle, though, so he guesses that the vigilante’s not too keen on involving himself in gang politics. That means Mickey’s probably in more danger as a runner than working the big shit, particularly as he’s not formally associated with any groups. It’s only a mildly comforting thought.

The most he can hope for is that, if the dude does end up intercepting one of Mickey’s jobs, Mickey can influence his mind enough to ignore Mickey outright.

He’s restless. Taking the packet of cigarettes and a lighter, he heads for the door, his feet beating a too-loud rhythm that echoes around the staircase as he heads down into the lobby and out onto the busy Chicago street.

Mickey doesn’t know where he’s headed; he just starts walking. Lights rise and fall and blur against the night. He wishes he’d bought his headphones, because Cursive would make a great soundtrack to the sleepless city. As a kid, he used to climb onto the roof with his hand-me-down Walkman - probably stolen by one of his brothers from a kid at school - set the tape to some angsty 90s emo and grunge shit, and watch as the sun set over the Chicago skyline. The buildings would turn into long dark silhouettes against the dying glow, like fingers stretching towards some great unknown, and Mickey would wait until the sky was that deep blue-black edged with hazy green before he made his way back down. The city represented, at the time, something he didn’t understand. An escape. Up on that roof, he was away from his parents’ fighting and his father’s fists and his brother’s teasing. The city itself was unexplored opportunity, its lights flickering like it was beckoning him, and he wanted it.

Somehow, after walking for about forty-five minutes, he finds himself in a vaguely familiar neighbourhood outside a diner his mom used to bring him and Mandy to after his little league games. Mickey thought it’d closed fucking ages back; at least that’s what his mom told him before she died. She’d call it their treat, their special secret; _“Don’t tell dad,”_ she’d say, smiling conspiratorially, tugging them through the door.

Now he stands on the street corner and stares up at the neon sign, _Betty’s_ , shining down at him in curly bright pink. He pockets his cigarettes and pushes his way in.

It’s empty inside, except for a single waitress, a dude behind the counter, and an old man in the corner who’s reading a paper. Mickey takes a seat at a window booth. The waitress comes over immediately, dressed in a frilly pink apron and a shirt with a cow on it, and brandishes a menu at him.

“Welcome to _Bet_ ty’s,” she says, tone dry, her arms crossed over her chest, “where everything’s better.” Her nametag says ‘Amanda,’ and she pops her b’s intentionally hard, the sound like bubble-gum snapping.

Mickey takes the menu and gives it a cursory glance, but he already knows what he wants. “I’ll take a serve of the banana pancakes plus coffee,” he says. _Amanda_ raises her eyebrows at his prompt response, flouncing off without a word, the edge of her mouth curled up. Mickey imagines that she and Mandy’d probably get on well. He rolls his eyes. Tinny music plays on the speakers above his head, something obnoxious and top-40, and he wishes he’d bought some alcohol to spike his coffee with.

"You're not waiting for anyone?" Amanda says five minutes later, bringing his pancakes over and sliding into the seat across from him. He raises his eyebrows. "What? I'm bored. And you look like better company than _wheezy_ over there."

Mickey says nothing, pulling the plate of pancakes towards himself and tipping a liberal amount of maple syrup over them.

"Girlfriend troubles, then?" Amanda picks up his napkin and begins shredding it between her fingers. "Boyfriend troubles?" When he frowns, she makes a pleased noise.

"Server troubles, actually," he says, and shovels a too-big forkful of pancake into his mouth. She laughs and throws the torn napkin at him.

"I like your tats. 'Fuck u-up.' Very poetic."

He glares at her and swallows. "Can't catch a fuckin' hint, obviously."

She just grins, clearly unperturbed, and leans back against the booth. Mandy would definitely like her - maybe too much. He'll have to bring her here. She'd like the diner, too. The pancakes are nostalgic - he can almost imagine his mother across from him, smiling behind a curtain of thick black hair, Mandy beside him, her fingers kneading against the edge of his t-shirt with excitement as she waited for her sundae.

Now Amanda is smiling at him instead, amused for some reason, like Mickey’s actually fucking interesting. His mouth twists into something resembling a grimace. “Do you mind?”

“Not really.”

Mickey huffs out a breath and grits his teeth. He rolls his neck and and shoulders, hoping it looks vaguely threatening, and resumes eating.

“Do you study?” Amanda says. “I’m in grad school at U of C.”

“Don’t care.”

“Nah, you don’t look like you’d have the patience for school.” She runs her fingers across her mouth. “Security?”

“Crime.” He mostly says it to get her to shut up, but she actually looks impressed. “What?”

Amanda shrugs, opening her mouth as if she’s about to say something, but the bell above the door tingles and gust of cold air follows a group of people as they step inside. She finally, _finally_ fucking stands, adjusting her glasses and plastering on the fakest smile Mickey thinks he’s ever seen. He laughs; she mock-glares at him before rolling her eyes and stepping away to serve the new customers. It’s a group of teenagers, and they look pretty drunk. Mickey figures this is probably his cue to leave. Finishing the coffee and the plate of pancakes, he throws a twenty down on the table and heads back out into the Chicago night, feeling more calm and together than when he left home.

Somewhere out there, the Wraith is fighting crime. Mickey needs to get his shit together.

 

* * *

 

Fernandez, 69. Racially motivated attack. Fernandez cries and clings tightly to the arm of the suit like it’s some kind of life raft. Fernandez is from Mexico and has a wife and five grandkids. He’d been looking forward all week to catching the new episode of Law and Order. Getting people to talk about everyday things, the people they love, what they’re looking forward to, often calms victims down enough that they can breathe through their fear.

As the ambulance arrives, Fernandez says, “Thank you, you saved my life,” and it’s shaky and heavily accented but knowing he’s made even a tiny difference makes everything worth it.

Holly, 32. Mugging. She’s shaking something terrible but manages to hold it together. Even asks for his number as the cops arrive to take away her attacker, but his mouth quirks in a tight, amused smile as he shakes his head and says that it would be a conflict of interest, sorry, and that she’s 99% not his type. She doesn’t get it. He disappears before the police can cuff him.

Emily, 20. Almost sexual assault. These are his least favourite; the body can heal in ways the mind cannot, his own abilities only stretching as far as the physical flesh. She’s pressed against a wall with her attacker tugging aside her skirt as she wails brokenly, “No, please, stop,” and Ian manages to expeditiously pull him off her and wind him with a swift palm to the solar plexus in one fluid movement. Next Ian’s cuffing the dude to the nearest metal object – a fence, in this case – and he’s is swearing loudly now he has his breath back.

“She was askin’ for it in that skirt,” he says viciously, and the girl whimpers, now a body curled in on itself against the pavement. She’s in shock. Ian pulls the girl away and calls in an anonymous tip-off to the cops, helping her away from the scene. He counsels her in an alley until the police turn up, sirens wailing, and she wants him to go and talk to them with her. Shaking his head, he has to tell her that it wouldn’t be safe. He’s sorry. He points her towards a female cop he vaguely recognises and says that she’ll look after her. The girl goes reluctantly, glancing back at Ian as he steps into the shadows.

Rebecca, 45. Domestic abuse. She sobs into his chest that her partner isn’t a bad man, that he doesn’t do this often, not really, so he runs his hand through her hair and whispers into her ear that she’s worth more than this. It makes her cry harder. He doesn’t want to hand her over to the paramedics when they arrive, but her eye is swelling to a nasty purple and he’s worried that her wrist might be broken, so he slips her a card with the number and address of a women’s shelter and tells her that she has options, even if it’s just talking to someone.

He heals what little he can of the worst injuries acquired by others, even if it’s just taking the immediate pain away. Drawing attention is not the aim, and oftentimes healing someone entirely would cause more harm than good. It scares them. He has to understand the anatomy in order to visualise the healing process, too, which can complicate things. It’s really just biological manipulation - he can pull flesh apart as easily as he can heal it, as long as he understands the cellular base, either speeding up mitosis or breaking down cells themselves. Sometimes, he doesn’t know the extent of the injury and fears he’d do more damage than good by healing.

Brains are another matter entirely, though, and far too complex to heal - even concussions. Too much could go wrong.

Every other stunt he pulls, every fight he engages in, he has to rely on his own body. He’s pushing it, really - too much healing tends to affect his moods, and he can’t always manage a regular sleep cycle, what with work, college, and crime fighting. So far, though, he’s managed to remain pretty stable. He can monitor his bipolar using his abilities, and balance things a little, but he still has bad days and his meds adjusted.

And feels particularly drawn the day after a busy night.

Consequently, Ian arrives at the diner the following morning fifteen minutes late, hair still curly and wet as it flops into his eyes and drips down his cheek. He slept through his alarm and missed his morning run, which is never a good thing, and he’s achy, tired, and drained. He has to work tonight, too - he has a shift at the bar from five until eleven, and he’s really, really not feeling it.

But he’s at this diner at nine nine fifteen on a Saturday morning, because Lip pays for breakfast every fortnight as an excuse to get the whole family together. They pile into a booth somewhere cheap, order an individual menu item each, and end up sharing everything regardless.  
Ian sees his siblings every few days, anyway - he meets Debbie between her classes for lunch at least once a week, and attends all Liam and Carl’s extracurriculars when he can. Fiona often brings them all around to his apartment, brandishing a couple of frozen pizzas or lasagna, telling him that he needs feeding up. Those nights, he chooses interacting with his family over patrolling. At the end of the day he’s doing it for them. They’re what’s important.

He enters the diner, the bell above the door ringing, and scans the room. Fiona, Lip, Debbie, Carl, and Liam are all over by the window, nursing either hot chocolates or coffees, deep in animated discussion. It’s become tradition not to bring significant others, even if sometimes Lip bends the rules and brings whichever girl he’s trying to ‘impress’ - or, rather, scare off - but thankfully it’s just the usual Gallaghers today. Ian eases in next to Lip, opposite Debbie, and Fiona smiles warmly at him from down the table.

“How you goin’, kid?” she says as she tucks a piece of flyaway hair behind her ear.

Ian curls in on himself like he often does when he’s not feeling great, moving slowly and gingerly and more like an old man than a twenty two year old, but smiles and says, “Fine,” anyway.

Lip tries to ruffles his hair. Ian dodges out of the way. Carl tries to hide his smirk behind his hot chocolate as he finishes it.

“Can I have coffee now, Fiona?” he says, brandishing the mug at her. Fiona shakes her head.

“No way. You’ve already got enough energy to power a small town.”

Carl pouts, but at least the spotlight’s been pulled from Ian.

Ten minutes later, though, Debbie says, “Seeing anyone?” to Ian, looking across at him. She’s been picking at her omelette since it arrived, playing with it more than eating it, uncharacteristically quiet. Lip and Carl are arguing about something next to Ian, Fiona looking exasperated but amused down the other end of the table, and Liam’s watching them and laughing. Ian sticks a piece of sausage in his mouth and shrugs.

“Nah. Not really … interested at the moment.” He waves his fork in a vague what can you do gesture. There’s no way he’d have the time to juggle all he does plus a relationship, but he can’t say that to his family. They don’t - can’t - know anything. He wants to keep it that way.

Debbie puts down her cutlery and picks up her coffee, starting into the dregs like they might somehow give her the answer to a very complex problem. “I really like someone.” Pushing the mug against her mouthful, she takes the last sip and tries to pretend that she’s not screwing up her face at the bitter taste. She rests the mug back on the table, coffee staining her upper lip, and looks very seriously across at Ian. “You’ve had lots of experience with men. What do you do if you’re, like … you know … sleeping with someone, and that’s all cool, but then you end up maybe ... wanting more than that?”

“Uh …” Ian’s saved by Lip elbowing him hard in the ribs.

“Yo, dude,” Lip begins, spearing Ian’s last sausage with his fork. Debbie sighs loudly and goes back to playing with the tomato sauce on her plate, obviously realizing that Lip’s going to dominate no matter what she says. “You getting enough from Clayton at the moment?”

Ian frowns. “Why?”

“Because I was thinking, once your lease is up in two weeks at the shithole place you live, we could find somewhere together. Something affordable. Better.” Lip says it casually through his mouthful of sausage, like it wouldn’t be a Big Thing, eyes wide and expectant.

“I’m not a fucking charity case,” Ian says, clenching his fists in his laps. “Clayton’s guilt money is bad enough.”

“It’s not like that and you know it.”

Lip’s so infuriating, sometimes. He’s so used to having everything just handed to him, he doesn’t know what it’s like to have to fight for anything. What it’s like to have implications tied to every action. Ian’s spent the last four fucking years proving that he’s not Monica and that he can do this, goddamnit; that after all the crap that went down when he was unmedicated, the ensuing struggle trying to get medicated, he can manage perfectly well on his own without their cloying, suffocating care.

Well, except Clayton’s fucking money, which Ian can’t do anything about, anyway, because it’s a direct deposit into his account once a week. That’s Monica’s fault. Granted, he probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the care he received without it, nor a place of his own, so he’s not so secretly grateful for absent biological fathers who feel they need to do their bit.

But sometimes, he wonders if playing arbiter most evenings is some way of somehow proving to himself that he can do everything and pursue some semblance of a dream at the same time.

Lip’s got that expression he gets when he feels someone’s being obtuse; crooked eyebrows, mouth half open, arms crossed. So Ian says, “You just don’t get it.” Lip bristles, at that, because if it’s one thing Ian knows Lip hates it’s being told that he doesn’t understand something.

“Whatever, Ian,” Lip says.

“What’re you two fightin’ about?” Fiona says, stopping her conversation with Carl to glare at the two of them. Ian rolls his eyes and sighs loudly, petulantly; Lip looks away, squaring his shoulders. God Fiona has a way of making Ian feel fifteen again.

“Lip wants us to move in together,” Ian says, and clenches his jaw. Lip’s gaze remains fixed somewhere on the ceiling.

“I figured it would be a good idea. Easier, you know?”

Fiona looks exasperated. “You two. Seriously.” Gesticulating for emphasis, she almost knocks the sauce bottle across the table. “Lip, stop being such an insensitive asshole. Ian, this isn’t about you. Lip just doesn’t wanna admit that him and his latest bit of fluff have split and he’s runnin’ out of couches.”

Debbie, Liam, and Carl are watching curiously now, too. Lip’s mouth twists. He looks very put out.

“I dunno why you can’t just find your own place,” Ian says under his breath.

“Because he’s used to living in something half-decent now,” Debbie says, very matter-of-factly, and loads up a spoonful of egg. “He doesn’t want to go back to drafty apartments with broken heating systems and cockroaches.”

Ian rubs at his neck. Living with Lip would be irritating as fuck, but admittedly also convenient, as long as Lip doesn’t insist on backseat driving Ian’s life. He sighs again and says, “Fine.” He looks at Lip levelly. “I have to like what you choose, though.”

Mouth twitching at the edges, Lip’s clearly frustrated, yet struggling not to look too pleased with himself at the same time. “Glad you could see the light.”

Ian flips a piece of scrambled egg at Lip’s smug fucking face.

 

* * *

 

Mandy pulls Mickey to a fucking bar the night before the shipment because Mickey can’t deny his sister anything.

They’re standing by a tall circular table with no chairs, staring at a guy Mandy insists is a good musician and watching him set up. Mickey’s tired and irritated and mostly wants to be home with bad television and chinese takeout and a beer, but sometimes he realises that he’s actually got to be a half-decent brother, damn it, because getting his sister away from their fucking family isn’t always enough.

Onstage, the musician says, “Hi.” He smiles a little and looks at the neck of his guitar. “Tonight I’ll be playing a mix of covers and originals. I hope you enjoy the show, and thanks for coming out on such a wet evening.”

Mickey snorts. “Anyway, here’s _Wonderwall_ ,” he mutters while the dude rechecks the tuning on his guitar. Mandy laughs out loud, this time, and hits Mickey’s shoulder.

“Want a drink?”

“If I have to.” The bar they’re in is called something stupid like _The Raven and the Crow_. It’s doused in soft light and too many pretentious idiots, and definitely doesn’t smell enough like stale booze and sweat for Mickey’s comfort. The floor isn’t even sticky, for fuckssake.

“We’re here for fun,” Mandy says, pulling Mickey towards the bar. “You haven’t been out in ages, asshole. Can’t have you atrophy in your fucking room at the age of twenty three.”

Mickey grunts. “Beats dealing with these fucking jokers.” He gestures at the room around them, which is filled with plaid-wearing bearded men and manic-pixie dream-girl types.

“Whatever you say, gramps.” She orders him a glass of whatever’s on tap, which cheers him up somewhat, but he’s still frustrated. He knows she’s angling to get him to hook up with someone tonight, which, no. He’d rather get shot in the fucking leg again right now, to be honest; the thought of have someone else’s sweaty body suffocating his own makes his skin prickle and his stomach roll.

“We have shit to prepare for the morning, too, Mands. We shouldn’t be out tonight.”

“Since when do you care about _homework_?”

Mikey runs a hand across his face and says, “Fucking hell, Mandy. Since our fucking lives are at stake, maybe?”

Mandy pouts. Mickey sighs irritably and turns away from her, glancing back up at the stage where the irritating floppy-haired guy is warbling about nobody getting me but you. Of course the fucker’s playing Spoon. Admittedly, his acoustic covers aren’t shit - they’re pretty good, actually - but Mickey’s too wound to let himself appreciate the music. Maybe a different track might work with Mandy. So he softens his voice and says, “Listen. We have to be extra careful now the dude with the hero complex is running around like fucking _Superman_. He’s dangerous. If he turns up tomorrow night -”

“Do you think he’s like us?” Mandy interrupts suddenly, quietly, eyes big and blue and so fucking ernest that Mickey isn’t even annoyed.

“What?” Conversational whiplash, man.

“The kid. The vigilante. D’you think he’s, you know …”

“No,” Mickey says firmly, immediately. “We can’t even - no.” He swallows his last mouthful of beer and slams the glass on the table. “We can’t fucking think like that, Mands. It’s not safe.”

Not telling his sister about his own encounter with the dude in that alley is hard enough. It’s worse when she speculates.

Mandy sighs despondently. “I know, I just …” she trails off. Mickey clears his throat. He’s not about to have some after school special moment with his sister over feeling lonely, okay. At least they’re no longer under Terry’s goddamn filthy thumb. They’re far less isolated now than they were then.

“Tomorrow’s operation is important. Personally, I wanna eat this week,” Mickey says with finality, and he knows Mandy gets it.

He turns back towards the bar to order another drink, and the dude serving makes Mickey want to rethink his whole _don’t wanna fuck no-one tonight_ stance. The bartender’s tall, his too-long red hair won’t stop flopping into his eyes, and he doesn’t seem to quite know where to put his hands. Mickey so does not have the patience or time for this.

“He’s cute,” Mandy says, following Mickey’s gaze, tone husky.

“Chop the fuckin’ curls, man,” Mickey says under his breath, and Mandy can’t help but roll her eyes, mouth stretching into a wide grin. To be honest, Mickey can’t stop thinking about messing up those ringlets. “D’you want another drink, Mands, or ...?”

She shrugs, so he heads towards the bar. Up closer, the dude’s even hotter - if you’re into the whole muscular, red-haired, scattered-with-freckles thing, which Mickey won’t admit he is. Thumbing at the taps and trying to speak above the music, he almost-yells, “Hey, man, can I have two glasses of whatever’s on tap?”

The redhead turns, eyes rimmed in kohl, tight tank pulled taut across his muscular chest, and … God, the dude fucking freezes as soon as he looks at Mickey, what little color is in his cheeks draining from his face. Mickey frowns. The bartender seems to realise immediately that his expression’s off, and his face softens, fake grin pulling his mouth so tight Mickey’s worried his fucking smile’s gonna snap in half.

“Two beers coming right up,” he says briskly, efficiently, fetching the glasses and pulling the lever, tipping off the head and leaving just the right amount. Watching his actions, Mickey’s half turned on and half very, very confused at the guy’s response. Mickey’s never seen him before in his life. What’s the fuckin’ deal?

“That’ll be ten bucks,” the guy says, holding out his hand.

Mickey palms him twelve and says, “Keep the change.” The guy’s smile becomes a little more natural, a little less forced, at that. Mickey takes both beers from the bar, refraining from standing and watching the guy for longer, and moves back towards where Mandy’s standing by their table.

“Did you do both of us a favour and get his number?” Mandy says as Mickey hands her the beer, and he flips her the bird as he chugs down a mouthful. She smirks in response.

Exasperation aside, Mickey can’t stop shooting him looks from across the room until he and Mandy leave.

 

* * *

 

Milkovich is in the fucking bar.

Ian noticed him enter, ever-vigilant, and spent the next half hour in the stock-room until his boss chased him out. Now he’s desperately trying to stay up the other end of the counter from where Milkovich is standing with some girl, petrified that Milkovich might recognise him.

Eventually Ian gives up on hiding and outright stares at Milkovich. Probably a safer way of avoiding them. Thankfully his back’s turned, but God, from what Ian saw, he’s just as attractive as he was in the alley. The girl he’s with is very pretty, too, with delicate features, a nose ring, and long black hair streaked with blue and pink. When she shifts into the light, Ian’s surprised to see that she’s missing part of her left arm, a stump extending to just below the elbow.

“What the fuck’s up with you tonight, Gallagher?” Roger, one of his workmates, says, eyeballing him. Ian smiles sheepishly and grabs another glass to polish.

“Sorry,” he says, finishing with the glass and turning to serve another customer, trying to monitor his heart rate, breathing steadily. Finishing the drink quickly, he’s turning away from the till and back towards the front when he hears a vaguely familiar voice say something about two beers.

Ian can’t help himself; he flinches, expression slipping as he panics. He immediately tries to pull the world back to what he knows. There’s no guarantee that Milkovich will recognise him at all; it was dark, Ian was suited, and he even changes his posture and physicality to something very soldier-like, almost military, when he wears it, his voice becoming rougher and less distinct.

He’s just never come across anyone he’s assisted before.

Reality snaps back and Ian adjusts accordingly, forcing a smile. Noticing that Milkovich is pointing to the taps, Ian says, “Two beers coming right up.” Milkovich’s eyebrows are raised, but beyond that, there’s no sign that he recognises Ian.

Ian fetches the beers, thanking years of conditioning when he doesn’t shake as he hands the glasses across. He know he says something about the beers being ten bucks, and Milkovich hands him a ten and a two, telling him to keep the change. The exchange ends. Ian relaxes, his smile becoming a little more real, as Milkovich heads back to the one-armed girl.

Relief washes over him half an hour later when Milkovich finally leaves, and Ian feels like he can breathe again.

 

* * *

 

The job’s going well until it fucking isn’t. Which, hey, tends to be the story of Mickey’s life.

He and Mandy manage to make it to the docks by five am, under slept and rumpled. The _lugartenientes_ is already there, dressed in his Armani suit and waiting to intercept the dump at five. There are four other men positioned around the perimeter of the landing strip. Mandy’s a driver; Mickey’s an off-loader. It’s unseasonably cold for an early September morning - Mickey buttons his coat against the chill while the lieutenant side-eyes the fuck outta him. The dude is apparently friends with Mickey’s uncle, which is how they got in on the job in the first place. Generally, Mickey tries to avoid cartels just as much as he tries to avoid the dock area around Lake Michigan. He hates it here. It always smells sour, rotten, like salt and dead fish and shit.

Breath clouding in the air, he rests his hand on the grip of the pistol tucked into his waistband and scans the surrounding area.

Shipping containers obscure their location from outside view. It’s still half dark, colors only just beginning to creep their way across the outer edge of the sky. He can hear the dull thrum of a light plane’s engine somewhere overhead, which must be what they’re waiting for, and he tenses.

At 5:25, the airplane begins its descent.

The boss immediately starts shouting orders. Mickey gets ready to sprint, stalking forward, muscles coiled, when -

 _Bang_. A gunshot echoes out across the strip like a wave crashing.

Mickey starts, stumbling, and his thoughts jump straight away to police. He rounds the corner of the nearest container, ducking for cover. Someone yells. Another gunshot. He peers out carefully, eyes darting to Mandy, who’s probably crouched under the steering wheel in a car that appears untouched.

Mickey’s eyes keep moving, his gaze snagging when it reaches the middle of the airstrip. The _lugartenientes_ has been shot. He’s crouched on the concrete next to the idling plane, clutching his arm, swearing in rapid Spanish.

Across the strip, a group of figures appear. They’re all dressed in brown, each carrying heavy-duty semi-automatics, stalking in formation towards the plane and trying to yell above the sound of the engines. Well. Not police, then.

Mickey reaches for his pistol and swears under his breath.

He doesn’t see the figure dressed in blue spandex crouched on the roof behind him.

 

* * *

 

Ian's fucking pissed.

“What the fuck, Lip,” he says into the phone, voice rough with sleep, head heavy with meds. “What the actual fuck.” It’s about all he can manage, if he’s honest. Lip should hardly expect much more at four fourty-five on a Wednesday morning. Especially since Lip knows he worked the night before. God.

“This is huge, Ian,” Lip says, and he actually has the rare decency to sound slightly sheepish. “I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t, you know -”

“No, I don’t, Lip. You’re an asshole. You know I have to keep regular hours, I can’t just -“

“You’re up at five thirty every morning anyway. What’s forty five minutes? Take the L to the docks and change up your running route.”

Ian snorts. “Yeah, because sitting on the L and running in a blue spandex suit at five-thirty in the morning won’t attract attention.” At Lip’s silence, he sighs heavily. “Look, Lip, you know I don’t get involved with drugs, all right? No drugs, no gangs, no -”

Lip interrupts with, “I think it might be heavier than just drugs,” in a flat, quiet tone, and Ian immediately shuts up. He blanches. What the fuck.

“That’s well above my pay grade and you know it,” Ian says eventually, voice tight. Lip laughs humorlessly.

“The police know about the drugs - they’re not intercepting. Apparently there’s an undercover on-scene or something. They want the intel more than they want the stash, okay - or maybe they’re just fucking complicit. I don’t know.” Lip sounds very, very agitated, the words escaping in a rush. “The cartel knows they’re leaving it, which is why they’re trafficking the weapons.”

Ian rubs a hand over his face, down to the back of his neck. “Okay,” he says quietly, already untangling his limbs from the sheets. “Tell me what you know.”


	3. I'm in warm water, swimming down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are explosions. The Wraith and Mickey begin on opposite sides, but eventually manage to reach an unspoken agreement. Mandy makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much again to Jen for being the best, and to Honey for allaying my fears.
> 
> title taken from the Banks song _Warm Water_.

From his vantage point atop the factory, Ian can see everything.

He watches and waits.

The pastel sunrise begins to bleed across the horizon like watercolor seeping across a damp page, and as each minute shifts, the figures below change from smudged silhouettes into vaguely distinct figures.

There's a black-haired man crouched behind a crate straight ahead; a guy in a suit curled on the runway next to the plane, clutching at his arm, likely injured; and a group of four men dressed in brown who are fanning out in V formation. Ian sees someone shift in the driver’s seat of the white panel van parked beside a building. No snipers are visible.

There’s no way he can take on the seven people he can see without some sort of strategy. There will likely be more, somewhere, and at least he currently has an advantage, but he needs to somehow get to the plane before the light betrays his position.

The black haired man below moves, slipping behind another crate, and he’s out of sight within a single breath.

Ian knows what he needs to do.

Running backwards, fuelled by adrenaline, he throws himself off the side edge of the factory, soundless and quick. He braces for the impact as the cracked concrete rushes up to meet him, his heart feeling as if it’s about to burst out his chest. _Snap_. He rolls as he lands, bracing his weight on his wrists, splintering the bones. As they crack, he lurches forward, immediately visualising the collagen in his ulna and radius shifting, calcium moving like a vine to wrap around the healing bone and reinforce the fissure.

No time to be frightened now. The motion is so quick that he barely feels any pain at all.

Using the momentum from his roll, he half sprints, half jumps, propelling his body until he’s crouched behind the same crate the other man was before. He takes a deep breath and makes his lungs absorb as much oxygen as they can, actively forcing his heartbeat to slow until he’s calm, thoughts clear, mind in-control. His hand brushes the taser strapped into his utility belt, but instead he reaches for the firecrackers and lighter he keeps in a pouch by his right hip. He needs Lip to engineer him some kind of flashbang grenade, really, but these do for the moment.

Sometimes he wishes he were a pyrokinetic instead of a biomanipulator. Not only does he think it would make things easier, but would also go better with the hair.

Flipping the lighter open, he ignites the long wick of a cracker, throws it as far as he can away from himself, and peers around the edge of the container.

It seems like the figures ahead are locked in some kind of intense debate. The injured dude - likely the boss of the operation, if his clothes are anything to go by - is clutching his useless arm to his chest and yelling loudly. He’s flanked by 3 other guys dressed in black who must’ve emerged from behind crates, each with their guns drawn, focused on the four men in brown. It appears to be some kind of Mexican Standoff.

… Or maybe the browns are waiting for something. Ian doesn’t have the time to speculate. He sucks in a breath, readying another cracker: _3, 2, 1_ …

The firecracker explodes across from him - _BANG_ \- light and sound erupting over the large open space, echo bouncing off the metal walls of the containers. Ian pulls his head back, waiting to hear their reactions, ready to throw another and relocate to a closer container. Before he can even light the next, though, there’s a thud, a scream, and the sharp, dissonant sound of metal hitting metal.

Trying to sneak a glance around the edge of the container, Ian feels a wall of … something slam against his consciousness. He struggles against it, fighting the mental pressure, but he’s thrown forward with the force, around the edge of the container and straight into the line of sight.

Nothing but a sprawl of limbs across the concrete, all thoughts disappear from his head.

 

* * *

 

Mickey’s breathing fucking hard. The strain of extending mental barriers so far outward from his own consciousness feels like some sort of physical exertion.

He’s never managed this before. He guesses it’s driven by fear.

After the noise like a firing shotgun had sounded, multiple guns had twitched away from their targets and over towards Mandy’s van. Mickey had panicked. He’d stepped out from behind his crate just as Mandy pulled the pistols from their owner’s hands telepathically, casting them into a pile across the airstrip, and Mickey had reflexively thrown out his defensive wall at the same time. Someone had screamed. The bodies scattered, consciousness blocked. Now Mickey stands, panting, in the middle of the open space, trying to hold his barrier, face pinched in concentration, muscles taut.

Mandy moves from the driver’s seat and runs towards Mickey, looking spooked. “Mick! What're you ...” Trailing off, she stops a few feet away from him and points behind him. He can’t look. All his concentration is focused on blocking the thoughts of everyone but Mandy. Her familiar thought pattern makes her easy to avoid.

Vision beginning to go white at the edges, he says, “What?” It’s more a grunted syllable than a proper word.

"The Wraith ..." Mandy says, her gazed fixed on a point somewhere over his shoulder. The fucking vigilante - he's here. Mickey can't turn, though - can't fucking look - because if he does he'll slip.

He looks across at Mandy seriously, says, "Can't. Gotta ..." and raises his clenched fists towards the bodies. One foot is placed in front of the other as he tries to brace his weight evenly across both legs, sweat trickling from his hairline.

Tilting her head in acknowledgement, Mandy tears her gaze away from the Wraith, picks up a pistol using her telepathy, and sends it flying towards the men. "Tell me when," she says, and pistol whips every single fucking one until each is knocked out. Including the pilot. Mickey feels their minds falling away from his, fading into unconsciousness, and eases off his hold.

None of them move. He releases them.

"Done," he says, gasping. She's about to start on the first again, but she drops the gun well away from them. "They're all fucking out like goddamn lights."

As soon as Mickey feels less like he's about to explode, he turns to face their next problem.

The Wraith is picking himself up from the pavement, looking spooked as fuck. “What the actual …” he begins, staring at the now unconscious men in a heap on the ground, his eyes flicking between them and the pistol he probably saw floating in the air.

Mickey wishes he had his own gun. Blood drips off his fingertips where his nails dug too hard into his palms, and he shifts his weight. He feels vulnerable when unarmed. He’s struggling not to construct another wall.

The Wraith pulls out his own taser as his gaze shifts towards Mickey and Mandy. “What the fuck did you do?” he says, then his face is shifting, realisation hitting, and all he says is, “... Oh.”

“Fuckin’ yeah.” Mickey says. Mandy steps tentatively towards Mickey, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket, and Ian’s gaze bounces between the two of them.

“Milkovich,” he says firmly.

“No shit, Sherlock. Glad to see you remember me.”

“You …” Mandy says, looking at Mickey. “... And him …?”

“He messed in some shit I was taking care of a few weeks back.” Mickey doesn’t shift his gaze from the Wraith. The Wraith’s eyes, in turn, are fixed firmly on Mickey. He snorts out a laugh. Lowers the taser.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey can see that Mandy is confused. He knows that he’s gonna get the third fucking degree later, goddamnit, but she’s sensible enough not to try and have it out with him here.

“More like I saved your ass, Milkovich,” the Wraith says, pulling himself up to his full height. Mickey’s eyes catch the way the spandex slides over the Wraith’s muscles; his rounded biceps, tight pecs, and defined abs. It’s fucking hot and distracting as all hell. “Or, would have, if you hadn’t tried to play the hero.”

“You’re the fuckin’ reason I got shot, man,” Mickey says, and narrows his eyes, focusing on the Wraith’s masked face. A piece of red hair has escaped whatever product he’s liberally smeared through, flopping across his forehead, and Mickey really, really wants to smooth it back into place.

The Wraith ignores him. “What _are_ you two?”

“Mercenaries, of a sort.”

“For gangs?”

Shrugging, Mickey says, sneering, “None of your fucking business.”

“But you’re powered, too,” the Wraith says quietly, stepping forward, fingers still grazing the grip of his taser. “That’s what happened before, right? With the wiping-my-mind thing? And the floating pistol?” He sounds almost hopeful.

Mickey glances at Mandy; the color has almost entirely drained from her face. “So you _are_ like us,” she murmurs. “You _know_.”

A pause. “Yes,” the Wraith says. He looks … uncomfortable.

“What can you do?”

When the Wraith doesn’t respond, Mickey says, “He fuckin’ heals people, or some shit. I dunno.” Pulling away from Mandy’s grip, he’s very tempted to try and get an impression of what the Wraith’s thinking. It would be so easy to just … Mickey swallows. “I got shot. One minute I was bleeding over the goddamn sidewalk, and the next minute he’s got his fucking hands on my leg and _bam_ , there’s no more bullet wound."

Silence. The Wraith's jaw clenches, nostrils flaring, and he crosses his arms defensively as his eyes dart over to the men on the airstrip. "And you guys, what, block people's thoughts and make objects fly?"

Mickey and Mandy say nothing. The Wraith huffs, rolls his eyes, and starts walking over towards the men, giving Mickey a very, very good view of his ass. The fucker. Mickey could just ...

Mickey reaches out with his mind, only just grazing the Wraith’s, but it’s enough. Thoughts, like bubbles, rise to meet Mickey’s, fuzzy and indistinct. Mickey can still get impressions, though, and that’s what’s important. The Wraith is irritated; a little frightened; very determined. His thoughts are fast, slightly frenetic, but controlled, and from what Mickey can make out, he plans to try and sort out this mess because he’s … worried about something. Mickey can’t sense anything about what he plans to do about him and Mandy, though, so Mickey figures they can chance it. Use him to slap on a temporary band aid. Deal with it at the end.

Mickey can’t read individual thoughts. He can get a rough idea of the person’s focus, a touch of emotion, and often their next action, but he struggles to run their thoughts concurrently with his own. Reading minds is a bit like pressing flour through a sieve; some scattered stuff falls through, but a lot is still caught at the top, inaccessible.

Luckily the Wraith is too preoccupied with the unconscious men and the plane filled with dope to notice Mickey feeling around in his head. Mandy notices, however, and she gives him the fucking stink eye as soon as he’s grounded back in his own body. It’s always a weird sensation; a bit like being woken from a deep sleep. He pointedly ignores her.

“Can you help me shift these men to a more secure location?” the Wraith says, and Mickey snorts out a laugh.

“Some fuckin’ hero.”

Mandy hits him hard on his arm and heads over to help the Wraith. Mickey lights a cigarette and tries not to shake as he takes a deep drag. He’s fucking tense, and drained, and really goddamn worried about what the fallout from this whole thing will be.

“I appreciate what you do, you know,” Mandy’s saying quietly to the Wraith as they pick up the first body. The Wraith smiles, pleased, like it’s not every fuckin’ day that someone tells him that what he’s doing is good, and shit, Mickey wants to hate him.

“Thanks,” the Wraith says casually. Mickey knows it’s false apathy - he wonders why the guy bothers. Pausing, the Wraith scratches his temple with his thumb and says, “Could you … use you power to lift the bodies?”

Mandy shakes her head, mouth twisting. “I can’t lift anything that weighs more than I do.” She almost looks _disappointed_ about it, and, well, ain’t that shit.

Mickey takes one lust puff before making a grudging decision. Flicking the butt away, he reluctantly grabs one of the men under the arms.

“Where d’you want ‘em?”

“There’s an empty container just over there -” the Wraith tilts his head to the right “- and another over the other side of the runway. Split black from brown. Make sure they don’t wake up, and hurry.”

“Sure, boss,” Mickey says sarcastically under his breath, but the Wraith hears. He laughs and he picks up one of the dudes bridal-style.

The Wraith throws Mickey an amused glance in acknowledgement and moves off.

The problem is, Mickey really wants to hate the dude. It doesn’t mean he can.

 

* * *

 

It takes them ten minutes to shift all but one body.

The rising sun is setting Chicago on fire, igniting everything with broad, glowing orange strokes of color. Ian’s sweating just a little, and his hair working its way out of its slick, the glue under the mask starting to itch. His cell reads 5:45. He’s trying really hard to keep calm and figure out what to do about what he knows is in that plane. Now, though, he also has two additional things to be concerned about: Milkovich, and his black haired, one-armed partner in crime, who Ian recognises as the girl he was with last night at the bar. Going by the familiar way they interact with each other - which reminds Ian of himself and Lip - coupled with their similar features, Ian guesses that they’re siblings.

Right now, they’re bickering over by the plane as Ian picks up the final body. He’s trying not to pay too much attention, because the most important thing at the moment is to get these guys locked in a crate, frisk them, clean up the collateral, and get the fuck out of dodge.

Reaching the crate, he dumps the body, and pauses. There’s a symbol embroidered on the synthetic brown shirt. Peering closer, Ian sees that it’s a clenched fist within a circle, stitched in white directly over the man’s heart. It’s familiar in a way that’s unnerving.

Ian steps backwards, frowning, reaching to frisk them before he leaves the crate, but he takes note of the symbol. He makes sure the opening is bolted tightly and heads back over to where Milkovich and his sister are standing, carrying too many phones and a single knife.

Milkovich turns to face him, sizing him up. Ian says, “It’s not over yet.”

“Yeah?” Milkovich says. The cold morning light cuts his face into sharp relief, color blooming across his cheeks from the chill, his eyebrows raised challengingly.

“That plane isn’t only filled with narcotics,” he says, and drops the cell phones where he dumped the others as he walks towards the access door of the plane’s hold. He’ll have to pull the sim cards from them after, but for now - the reason he came here in the first place.

“What do you mean?” the girl says, stepping forward. Milkovich doesn’t move.

“Weapons.” Ian presses his gloved fingers against the body of the plane. The metal is achingly cold against his bare palm. “It’s - you were about to unload an illegal arms shipment.”

“What the fuck?”

Heading towards the cockpit, Ian climbs into the plane and tries to find the button that will release the hold door. He turns towards Milkovich, who just spoke, and says, “Check for yourself,” as he presses the right symbol.

To be completely honest, Ian’s frightened to look himself. _Anything_ could be in there. He takes a steadying breath, hops from the side of the plane, and walks to the hold where Mickey and Mandy are already standing.

Inside, most of the compartment appears to be taken up by legitimate goods - kitchen appliances, in this case. Ian reaches forward, pulling a box towards him, and opens it.

The bottom is of the first box is lined with coke packaged in plastic and brown paper; the second box carries some semi-automatic weapons and a variety of grenades. The third is actually a blender, and the forth Ian opens holds three automatic rifles and two pistols. There's probably another twenty to thirty boxes packed into the tight space.

Running his fingers across one of the rifles, Ian says, “This is some seriously contraband shit.”

“You don’t fuckin’ say.”

“Did you know about this, Mickey?” The girl says accusingly, and finally Ian has a name: _Mickey._ Three times in one month in a city the size of Chicago has got to be some kind of coincidence.

Mickey glances over at Ian briefly, obviously aware it’s an admission, obviously nervous about it, and says, “‘Course not, _Mandy_. No fucking way I’d get us caught up in -” he gestures to the plane “- this shit.”

 _Mickey_ and _Mandy_ ; their names suit them both. Ian likes the alliteration.

“Sorry to break the party up, but we really gotta do something about this before the guys wake.” Ian's trying to take as many photos of the contents of the hold as possible on his shitty burner, figuring that they're better than nothing. Lip can help him ID some of the weapons later. "I'm thinking fire. Nothing looks hugely explosive, except for the grenades."

Mickey rolls his tongue in his mouth and snorts. "Steal the fuckin' thing."

"Last time I tried to hot wire an aircraft, it didn't go so well," Ian says with a wry smile.

Mickey frowns and looks ready to interject, but Mandy interrupts with: "Gasoline in the back of the van."

Ian's starting to really like this girl.

"Can you ...?"

"Sure," she says. The back of the van busts open and about a gallon can of gas comes flying towards them. She drops it so they can unscrew the top, and then it's circling the plane and spilling its contents as Mickey, Mandy, and Ian back away carefully, the chemical smell filling Ian’s nostrils.

Mickey shakes his head. “The boss’s gonna be so fuckin’ pissed.”

He knows Mickey and Mandy are criminals; that they, too, by all rights should be locked in a crate. But they’re so close to his age, and seem so nervous, and they’re powered, too. He’s never met anyone else with powers. They could’ve run off immediately, Mickey could've paralysed Ian again, but they actually stuck around and _helped_. Ian feels a strange kind of kinship with them. Even likes them.

“I’ll be the one who gets the blame. Don’t worry,” he says, trying not to let what he’s feeling colour his tone, and tosses the lighter at the plane.

It combusts. Flames lick over the metal chassis and into the hold, blistering the paint as acrid black smoke curls into the air. Ian yells _run_ , and they do, following him up to the roof of the warehouse he was standing before, well away from any possible debris.

As they reach the top, panting, the plane below explodes in a burst of fire and noise. Pieces of metal fly through the air, embedding themselves in the metal walls of the crates or bouncing of with a sound like rain hitting a tin roof, only much louder. The flames must’ve reached the grenades.

“Holy fuck that’s awesome,” Mickey says, and Ian finds himself _grinning_ at Mickey’s childish delight.

They stand and watch the flames eat away at the damaged metal for a few minutes, sunlight finally fighting its way through the dappled clouds, when Ian says, “Thanks for, you know, helping.”

“Not gonna try and serve justice to us or whatever?” Mickey says, turning to face him, eyebrows raised, stance tight, like he’s readying himself to throw a punch. Or maybe mess with Ian’s thoughts; it’s a tough call.

“Mickey,” Mandy says. Her voice is edged with warning.

Ian shrugs, another smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’d be pointless,” he says. “I’d try to, what, maybe disintegrate the bone in your thigh? Cut your left bicep? But you’d know what I was going to do as I did it - I’ve watched you fight, remember - and either stop me from thinking or throw something large and heavy at my head. I’d be left somewhere on the ground for the police to find when they inevitably turn up within the next five minutes, because there’s no way that explosion wasn’t heard in at least a three mile radius, and if you haven’t already guessed, I’m not exactly Chicago PD’s favourite person at the moment.” His smile turns wry. “You’re smarter than that, _Mickey Milkovich_. Keep up.”

“Smartass.” Turning away, Mickey huffs. Runs a hand through his hair. Rubs at his knuckles. The corner of Ian’s mouth twists further upwards.

There’s an awkward pause before: “So, yeah. Hope I don’t see you around.” Ian turns to leave.

“Wait,” Mandy says, and grabs at the spandex of Ian’s suit. In a heartbeat, Ian’s halfway across the building, ever vigilant, fingers extended and ready to engage.

“Fuck,” he says when he realises Mandy means no harm, and she almost looks sheepish. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” she says, looking at the ground. “I just …” She visibly swallows and looks up, voice defiant, mouth a thin, tight line. “I want to help you.”

“What?” Ian and Mickey say in unison. Ian doesn’t have time for this. None of them do. The police will be here in no more than a few minutes, and they have to be well away from the area, or …

Mandy continues to stare at him, her gaze not even flickering towards Mickey, like this is a decision she’s making entirely for her and herself alone. “I’m tired of doing nothing, of never exceeding expectations. This is my chance, you know?” She exhales heavily. “I want this.”

Ian can hear the sirens wailing in the distance. He wonders if this was intentional on her part; whether she deliberately picked an awkward moment to put him on the spot. Whether this was something she’d been considering for a while.

“I want to help people,” she continues. She sounds so determined. “I don’t want people to have to go through what I have. If I can save even one person ...”

Looking over to the road briefly, he says, “Look, Mandy -”

“And don’t you fucking dare use the arm as an excuse,” she says, suddenly angry, and Ian starts.

“I wasn’t going to. I was going to say that you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

Mandy tosses her hair behind her shoulders and squares her chest. “I’ll do it with or without your help.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He’s not likely to win this argument - not right now. Mickey’s rubbing a hand across his mouth and opening his jaw as if he’s about to say something, but he must think better of it, because instead he rolls his top lip across his top teeth and pulls the bottom into his mouth. It’s fascinating. Ian has to tear his gaze away. “Okay, I got something. Put your number in here.” He tosses her his burner. “Wait. I’ll contact you.”

Mandy’s fingers fumble across the keys. The cops are close - he can hear the car engines wheeze above the sound of the harbor starting operations for the day and the calls of the shrieking gulls. He pushes his hair back from his face, trying to keep his attention away from Mickey - who looks a bit like he’s about to blow a gasket - and holds out his hand.

“You better contact me, asswipe,” she says in her low, rough drawl, and sends the cell back in his direction.

He inclines his head slightly before he smiles and leaps from the edge of the building.

“Fucker.” That’s the last thing he hears. The dull roar of the air rushing past his ears, the sharp snap of cracking concrete and bone as he hits the ground running, swallows any other words that might’ve been said.

 

* * *

 

God fucking damn Mickey loves Mandy more than anything in the entire fucking world, but she’s also the most infuriating person he’s ever met.

He says, once they’re well away from the bay area, his lungs and thighs screaming in protest after running for two miles: “You’re a fucking idiot.” The words lose their impact, because he has to swallow a mouthful of air between every word, but he thinks he manages to get his point across.

They’re in a dull neighborhood probably named after a cardinal point and some other thing that doesn’t mean anything, the houses big and expensive looking. Mickey’s totally fucking exhausted. It’s only been an hour and a half since they reached the docks, but it feels more like ten. He wants to find the nearest station so they can get home, shower, and sleep, but he feels that he and Mandy need to address what will become an elephant in the room, and what better time to do it than when they’re stuck somewhere Mickey’d have to work for a year to afford even a square foot of. Sobering, you know.

Mandy says nothing, just pushes her hand deeper into her pocket. Mickey kicks at a perfectly manicured nature strip and sighs. Maybe he doesn’t want to sleep. Maybe he wants to down three fifths of whiskey instead and take his gun to somewhere he won’t be bothered if he shoots at cans.

Eventually, when they’ve walked about another quarter mile, Mandy says, “This is important to me. I don’t expect you to understand that, but I need this.”

“College, work, and a social life ain’t enough for you?”

“You don’t - can’t - get it, Mickey, so don’t even bother.”

“I’m your fucking brother,” he says, like it’s an explanation, like it’s some kind of plea, and tugs a cigarette from the pack with shaking fingers.

Mandy’s shoulders curl. “Not everything’s about you, Mickey.” Her words are hard, almost bitter, but then both her tone and face softens, like she realises how she sounds. “Nothing much ever seems to be about either of us.”

Mickey grunts and takes another drag.

“You haven’t had to prove yourself the same way I have, Mick. I’m not doing this out of some misguided sense of - _whatever_. This is for _me_.” She takes a steadying breath. “I need to prove my ability to myself and the world, to make something of a shitty situation, and this is how I’m choosing to do it. You don’t need to join me, or agree with me, or even accept it, but, hell, I’d like you to.” Pulling the cigarette from his hand, she puts it to her own mouth and looks away, sucking the smoke into her lungs. “I want you to.”

“I’m your fucking brother,” Mickey repeats, but the words are firmer and definitely a justification. “Done this much for you. I ain’t giving up now.”

It’s all he needs to say, though. This time, Mandy gets it. She smiles that full-lipped smile she gets when Mickey does something _right_ , grabs his wrist, and squeezes.

“Thank you,” she says softly. Mickey shrugs and plucks the cigarette back as they round the corner and see a station.

As they climb the steps past the turnstiles, Mickey just hopes he isn’t making an enormous mistake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on tumblr @ hubrisandwax :)


	4. Lend me your power; merge into me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian makes a decision. Mickey makes a choice. Mandy makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from Darius's song [Helios](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6efjoY8_m8). thanks, as always, to [Jen](http://wehangout.tumblr.com), who deserves all the love.

“I met a girl,” is the first thing Ian says as he pushes his way inside the door to his apartment.

Lip’s standing in the kitchen, dressed in a dirty tank and a pair of old boxers. There’s a piece of toast hanging out his mouth and a mug of coffee clutched in his hand. He slowly pulls the slice from his mouth, levels Ian with a steady stare, and says sardonically: “Good for you, man. Always wondered when you’d get there.”

Ian huffs and rolls his eyes, toeing off his shoes and dumping his gym bag by the door. “Not like that.” He walks into the kitchen and pulls the cereal from the shelf. “The whole thing was … weird.”

“What d’you mean?” Lip asks through a mouthful of toast. Ian pulls a face.

“Another gang turned up at the last minute. I think they wanted the weapons, too.” He tips the crunchy nut cheerios into a bowl, grabbing a spoon. “Luckily I had help.”

Lip’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline as he leans against the sink.

“There was - a brother and a sister. They …” Ian doesn’t really know how to describe them. Poking around in the bowl, he continues, “They were powered, too. He could … influence minds? She could move stuff. Managed to knock everyone out so I could blow up the plane.”

Lip looks intrigued. “Holy shit, man. Sounds like a telekinetic and a telepath.”

“Yeah.” Ian frowns. He lifts a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. Chews. Swallows. Lip’s staring at him expectantly, and looks like he might be about to say something, so before he loses his nerve, Ian says, “I think … I think she wants to join me. Or something. She wants to help. Become a vigilante, too. I don’t know what to do about it.”

Lip’s jaw snaps shut and he whistles, low and long. “Holy shit,” he repeats. “This is … this is really fuckin’ big.”

“Yeah,” Ian says again, running his hand through his still-stiff hair.

“What’re you gonna do?”

Shrugging, Ian goes back to staring at the little dry circles of wheat. “I have her number. She wants me to text her, but …” He looks up and out through the window opposite. The sky is gunmetal grey, threatening rain; bruised and purpling clouds build against the horizon. “I don’t think she understands what she’s getting herself in to.”

He went on his usual five mile run to try and get his thoughts in order before he came home, but it helped little. Everything’s still - complicated. He doesn’t know what to think about the fact that there are others out there like him. That they want to try and make a difference, too. It’s kind of very overwhelming.

Lips does that thing where he leans forward, bottom lip jutting out, and looks out from under heavy-lidded eyes. "Help could be good, you know? You’ve been at this thing alone for almost six fucking months.” He shifts his weight and rubs a hand against the back of his neck, messing up his hair even further. Sometimes Ian’s not sure if Lip _intentionally_ tries to look like he’s either just been on a bender or hasn’t slept in a week, or whether it’s just his perpetual state of being. “Give yourself a break.”

“It’s not that simple.” Ian sighs heavily and paws at his face with the back of his hand. “You don’t know what it’s like out there, Lip. I’m not just going for a fucking stroll every evening, or helping the elderly across the street, or pulling cats from goddamn trees. It’s -” He takes a breath. He doesn’t like talking about what he does with anyone - not even Lip, who knows what Ian is. While Lip thinks he understands everything, he only really knows a lot of _facts_ , and only has limited experiences to support them. It’s a very different thing to think about facing a group of armed mobsters - watching them shoot each other’s heads at point-blank range, fearing that you’ll be next if you don’t move fast enough - and conceptualising it, or reading about it in the paper, or seeing it on TV. “It’s life or death stuff, and I don’t want to be responsible for someone else,” Ian says with finality.

“You wanted to be an officer, Ian.”

“Soldiers at least have a vague idea of what they’re in for. She won’t.”

Shrugging, Lip grabs another piece of bread and shoves it in the toaster. “Your call, man. I think help would be good for you, though.” Which is Lip’s way of saying that he worries, something Ian both does and doesn’t want.

“You shouldn’t,” Ian says anyway, dumping his bowl in the sink, burner feeling too-heavy in his pocket. He has five days before he’s due to get a new phone, and having her number on his phone for any longer than that is too risky.

Five days to make a decision.

“I’m your brother.” Is all Lip says, slapping Ian’s shoulder as he walks away.

“You staying here again, then?” Ian calls after him. “You and Johanna broke up for real this time?”

A pause. “Er, yeah. Stayed with Joaquin last night,” Lip says, rearranging his stuff on the couch. “Think I got a place for us, though. We can check it out next week.”

Ian nods as he makes his way to the bathroom. “Hope you didn’t break her heart too much, this time,” Ian says, and ducks quickly inside before Lip can throw something at him.

He takes a deep breath and tries to clear his head as he turns the faucet for the shower on; he can figure this out.

 

* * *

 

 

Mandy keeps checking her cell and it’s pissing Mickey the fuck off.

It’s currently sitting on the arm of the chair, almost excruciatingly silent, and Mickey wants to put her out of her misery and just throw it across the room so it shatters into lots of tiny fragments. It would be satisfying in a kind of perverse way.

Instead he grips his beer can even harder until the tin crackles under his fingers.

It’s been four days since their encounter with the Wraith and the shit that went down at the docks. Mickey hasn’t heard from his uncle, which he’s not sure is a good or a bad thing, and Mandy hasn’t heard from the fucking superdude, either. She’s been nervous all week, compulsively checking her phone, the classifieds, his fansites; any way he might possibly send her her a message.

“If he’s gonna contact you, it’ll be by text,” Mickey said to Mandy as she checked her fifth paper, and Mandy’d given him the under-the-brow glare she’s so good at.

Now, as _The Last Samurai_ or something just as bad plays on TV, Mickey glances over towards Mandy to watch her pick up her phone again.

"Nope, you don't," Mickey says, standing, grabbing Mandy by her arm and pulling her up too.

"What the fuck are you doing, Mickey?" Mandy says, pulling her arm from Mickey's grip and trying to readjust her clothing. She's sneering at him, the bridge of her nose wrinkled, brow pulled down, mouth slightly open and her teeth visible.

"We're goin' out," he says.

"We've got no fucking money, dickhead."

"We'll make do." Mickey grabs their coats and tosses Mandy's to her, tugging on his own. "Not going drinking, anyway."

Mandy sighs irately. "There's nowhere else to go."

"You think that now," says Mickey, and hustles her out the door ahead of him.

Mandy follows him down the four flights of stairs and out on the the street, maintaining a steady distance behind him like she always does when she’s pissed. It’s a mild night, the moon a tiny glowing slice in a sky lightly dusted with stars. Not too much traffic, either. Mickey concentrates on Mandy’s footfalls to make sure she’s definitely following him, not wanting to push her too hard when she’s already in such a foul mood, and tries to remember the route.

He lights a cigarette for himself and offers the pack behind him. Mandy plucks it from his fingers. She’s not _too_ angry, then.

He manages to make it more direct than last time, and in twenty minutes they’re standing outside _Betty’s_ , the neon letters flickering on and off, Mandy looking very apprehensive.

“Didn’t mom bring us here?”

Mickey says nothing as he opens the door and gestures for Mandy to enter.

The diner’s empty again; too early for the drunk crowd but too late for the dinner rush. Mickey takes one of the booths by the window again, Mandy sliding in opposite, and he glances over to the counter.

The same girl as last time is on again tonight. Good.

“We used to -” Mandy says, and Mickey nods as Amanda appears at the edge of their table. Mandy shuts up immediately.

“Hey, it’s the criminal again. Long time no see,” Amanda says, the corner of her mouth tugging up. She adjusts her glasses and looks over at Mandy. “And this must be your partner in crime.”

Mandy looks almost affronted, her fingers curling towards her palm, jaw clenched.

“Been too busy robbing banks,” Mickey says casually. Amanda laughs and drops the menus on the table.

“I’m Amanda, by the way,” she says, turning towards Mandy and pointing at her nametag.

“I can read,” Mandy says, but she relaxes. “I’m Mandy.”

Amana shakes her head. “At least you’re nicer than grumbles over here, who wouldn’t even give me his name.”

“Mickey,” Mandy says, voice husky and slightly amused, “like the mouse.”

Amanda laughs again and Mickey flips Mandy the bird.

“What’ll it be, then? Does Mickey Mouse want his cheese? Or will you take pancakes again?” Amanda tucks her hair behind her ear and pulls out her pad. The ends are dyed bright purple, this time, and she’s wearing the hideous cow apron. They clash terribly. Mickey snorts.

“Pancakes and jello, thanks.”

Mandy glances at Mickey. “I’ll take a sundae.”

“Gotcha,” Amanda says, and flounces back towards the kitchen.

Mandy picks up a napkin and begins to shred it between her fingers, watching Amanda as she leaves. She hasn’t checked her phone once since they arrived. Mickey figures that’s some kind of win.

“Thanks,” she says quietly. Mickey figures its for bringing her somewhere that was so significant when they were kids; for pulling her out of herself; for trying to introduce her to someone he knows she’ll get along with. He just shrugs in response and turns until he’s angled more towards the TV in the corner.

Amanda appears ten minutes later with a bowl of fries, a serve of pancakes, some jello, and a towering sundae.

“What?” she says indignantly when she sits beside Mandy with the fries in front of her and Mickey gives her a look. Mandy blushes, which, huh. “I love your hair by the way, Mandy.”

This week, it’s dyed deep burgundy on top with the usual black shooting through underneath. “I like yours,” Mandy says, flushing deeper. Amanda doesn’t seem to notice. “I wish I could get my hair that smooth and soft-looking.”

“I think the loose waves suit you. You’re super pretty.”

“Trying to eat here,” Mickey says, intentionally pushing too much food into his mouth. Amanda grins and eats one of her fries.

“You two are cute.”

Mickey almost chokes on his pancakes.

Rolling her eyes, still blushing, Mandy says, “He’s mostly a shithead.” She scoops some icecream up with her spoon and shrugs. “Brothers.”

“I’m an only child, so I love sibling dynamics,” Amanda says eagerly, and Mickey watches her eyes trace the path of Mandy’s tongue as it licks up the side of the glass. He sighs and gets out his phone. Probably about time he texted his uncle.

He’s been avoiding it for days, if he’s honest with himself, because he’s fucking worried that the Wraith won’t be the one to cop the shit. If the gang he was working with catch wind of any funny business …

 

 

> **MICKEY TO RONNIE ON 10/02 AT 10:13PM:**  
>  sunday’s job was a fuckin cock up

 

Mickey tunes out Amanda and Mandy’s very enthusiastic conversation and checks the news as he waits for a response. There’s been nothing but radio silence on the Wraith, and Mickey’s not sure if that’s unusual or not. Maybe there have been better things to report on.

His phone dings with another message.

 

 

> **RONNIE TO MICKEY ON 10/02 AT 10:17PM:**  
>  Yea I heard. Tht fuckin vigilante. Keepin our ears to the ground about him n the other rogue group that intercepted.

 

Thank fuck. He and Mandy are all clear - the Wraith was right. He does find it odd that his uncle doesn’t know who the second group was, though. Ronnie knows all the goings-on about town. It makes them unpredictable and dangerous - like the Wraith.

However, Mickey’s not actually sure how much he can trust his uncle at the moment. Because if Ronnie does know everything, it means that he knew weapons were being shifted along with the coke in that plane. Ronnie knows Mickey doesn’t get involved in the heavier shit. It was a betrayal. A big one at that.

Mickey can’t let Ronnie know that he knows about the weapons, though, so he scratches at his neck and responds with:

 

 

> **MICKEY TO RONNIE ON 10/02 AT 10:13PM:**  
>  we got out to try and run for help but the cops turned up.

 

 

> **RONNIE TO MICKEY ON 10/02 AT 10:17PM:**  
>  Figured it was like tht when i heard youd ditched. Let me know if u hear anythin about the Wraith or whatever the fuck hes called.

 

 

> **MICKEY TO RONNIE ON 10/02 AT 10:18PM  
>  ** ok

 

Fat chance if they end up in cahoots with him, the fucker.

Mickey finishes his pancakes and looks back up at Mandy and Amanda. They’re currently exchanging numbers, of course, Amanda typing hers into Mandy’s phone and calling herself.

“Maybe we could get a drink sometime,” Mandy’s saying, her cheeks tinged pink again. “As friends.”

“Yeah, sure; as friends, totally,” Amanda says, nodding. “I can also help you with that paper, if you want.” She ducks her head and adjusts her glasses. “Postgrad, you know. Been there, done that.”

“Thanks,” Mandy says softly. Mickey fights the urge to roll his eyes at how ridiculous they’re being - he knows Mandy’s tells when she’s into someone; they’ve been to bars together enough - but he says nothing. Mandy can tell him about her obvious big gay crush in her own time.

“Okay, Charlie Andrews - what’s the bill total?” Mandy raises her eyebrows at Mickey. “It’s a fuckin’ _Heroes_ reference. God.”

Amanda quickly calculates it on her napkin and pushes it over towards Mickey, who pulls out his wallet. He drops some notes on the table and stands up.

“It was great to meet you,” Amanda says to Mandy before turning to Mickey with a smirk. “And hopefully I’ll see you for breakfast-for-dinner again soon, Mickey.”

Mickey snorts. “Whatever,” he says, heading towards the door.

“Bye!” Mandy says behind him, and then she’s barrelling into his back as he steps out into the brisk night air.

They’ve only taken a few steps when Mandy’s phone dings.

“That was fuckin quick,” Mickey says. “Someone’s keen.”

Mandy hits his shoulder and pulls her phone out.

All the color drains from her face.

“It’s not …” She swallows and starts again. “It’s -”

Mickey, suddenly nervous, pulls the phone from her limp fingers. It’s from an unknown number with a Chicago area code, and it’s nothing but a date, a time, and an address.

The fucking Wraith.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Mandy says, and chuckles shakily, her mouth now curling into a grin. “Guess this is happening after all.”

Mickey rubs his hand across his mouth and sighs heavily. “Yeah. Guess it is.”

 

* * *

 

Wallace Street is quiet compared to the city as Lip and Ian make their way towards the Gallagher house. It's a cool night; Ian's breath clouds on the air as they walk across the uneven pavement. Fiona invited them for a “midweek meal”, which is really her way of checking up on everyone, and Ian figures the city can be without him for one night.

He’s still not sure he made the right decision by texting Mandy. He’ll just have to be as honest as possible, because he figures giving her a choice is the right thing to do, even if it is a gamble. Knowing what it’s like to have your own dreams stripped from you, well - Ian decided he wasn’t going to do that to someone else.

Standing in the portico outside the house, Ian’s pulled from his thoughts when Fiona throws her arms around his shoulders.

“You two!” she says, before forcing the same treatment on Lip. She follows it up with, “I got someone here tonight, so play nice, okay?”

Fiona is notorious for her preoccupation with bland white men, as Debbie puts it; Lip and Ian share an apprehensive glance as they follow her inside.

Carl and Liam are watching something age-appropriate on television and Carl’s complaining very loudly about it. Lip ruffles their hair; Ian intentionally licks his lips until they’re really wet and plants one on both of their heads. Liam giggles. Carl swears and tries to push Ian away.

“Gross,” he says, but grins up at them.

The house is still messy but clean. Not much has changed in the four years since Ian moved out for the first time: the couch is still in the middle of the room; water stains creep their way across the ceiling as the wallpaper peels from the walls; and every flat surface is covered with an eclectic mix of possessions. It’s home.

Fiona calls at them from the kitchen, so they head in, encouraged by the smell of something cooking in the oven.

Debbie’s sitting at the table with a textbook set before her, sending irritated glances at Fiona, who’s flirting outrageously with a bearded man. He looks like a lumberjack with scroungy facial hair, poor-cut jeans, and an over-washed flannel. Lip rolls his eyes and approaches the guy, who shuts up immediately.

“Lip,” Lip says, offering one hand and pointing his thumb over his shoulder with the other, “n that’s Ian.”

Ian nods, maintaining a safe distance.

“Gus,” the guy says, face breaking into what’s probably meant to be a warm smile. Mostly it serves to make him look more uncomfortable.

Fiona smiles expectantly, but the silence remains for a beat too long and her mouth loosens. She eventually says, wrapping her arms around her middle, “Lip’s a robotics graduate from Chicago Polytech. He’s workin’ at a new startup at the moment. And Ian trained as an EMT but is doing a certificate in paramedics.”

“Good careers,” Gus says, nodding, and of course he’s got a fucking Canadian accent. Trust Fiona to find an awkwardly polite Canadian hipster to add to her lineup of dull, dough-faced white men.

Lip looks deeply unimpressed. Fiona glares at him, though, so he closes his mouth, and instead Ian says loftily, “What brings you to Chicago?”

“Work,” Gus says. He presses his palms together in front of himself. “I’m a musician.”

“Cool,” Lip says. Ian figures that’s enough smalltalk and goes to pull himself a soda and Lip a beer from the fridge. Gus remains leaning awkwardly against the counters, facial expressions difficult to read properly under all that hair.

“Can we eat? I’ve got midterms next week and I can’t study with you guys yabbering on,” Debbie calls from the table, voice whiny.

“What’re you working on at the moment?” Ian says, walking over and taking the seat next to her. He tries to peer at her books.

She glares across at Lip as she says, “Chemistry. Lip’s not allowed to look because he’ll tell me it’s all wrong.”

“That was _one time_ , Debs.”

Ian grins.

The family arrange themselves around the table, Liam and Carl traipsing in from the living room as Fiona dumps what looks to be lasagna on the table in front of them, Lip helping to serve. Gus sits opposite Ian, Fiona beside him. The audio from the television filters through above the sound of clinking cutlery. It’s the news. Ian manages to make out something about ‘the masked vigilante, also known as the Wraith’ and grips his spork tighter. He wants to know what -

Fiona interrupts with, “Liam, Carl; why didn’t you turn that shit off?”

Liam grins cheekily and slides off his chair, slinking into the living room. He’s back in a moment and says, “Superheroes are awesome,” before resuming eating.

“Yeah,” Carl says enthusiastically. “I wanna meet the Wraith. He could teach me the coolest stuff.”

Ian tries not to choke as he swallows, reaching immediately for his can of soda. Lip nudges Ian’s leg with his foot under the table.

“I think it’s dangerous,” Gus says. “Who knows what he’s after. His motivations aren’t clear.”

Fiona tucks her hair behind both ears. “I think it’s great. He’s done nothin’ but good so far, from what I can tell. I say leave him be.”

“But it’s American exceptionalism.” Gus picks up his beer and takes a swill before he continues. “Other cultures have gods and demigods in their mythos - the US has superheroes in its popular culture. It’s dangerous.”

“It’s because we don’t trust our justice system. Our culture sees retributive justice as something that’s right,” Debbie says.

Ian stays resolutely silent.

“Debs is correct,” Lip says, swallowing. “We don’t see the system as fair, or ‘just’, so we create figures that can fulfil our ideologies.” He shrugs. “Makes sense, I guess.”

Gus tilts his head to the side. “I dunno. It all seems a bit much to me. No one should see themselves above the law like that, not if they’re a single person fighting for nothing in particular.”

“What do you think, Ian? You’re the one who’s into fighting for his country.” Fiona looks eagerly across at him.

Ian chews his food. Swallows. Takes a sip from his soda and shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t really have an opinion, I guess.” He pauses and raises his eyebrows. “If he’s helping people … leave him alone, I suppose.”

Lip tries to hide his smirk with his hand; Ian wants to hit him.

“I think it must be lonely, doing all that stuff on your own,” Liam says quietly. That shuts everyone up.

“I just think he’s fucking awesome,” Carl says eventually, and Liam vigorously nods. “Gonna do a project on him next semester.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Fiona says. “Remember last time?”

Carl smiles wickedly and returns his attention to his lasagna.

“How’s school, by the way, Carl?” Lip says, digging the toe of his shoe into Ian’s calf again, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s safe.

The rest of dinner passes without another mention of _the Wraith_ , and Ian’s so fucking thankful. God, the title might suit him, but he thinks it also makes him sound like a pretentious ass. Media attention might have died off for a week because of some celebrity event, but it has come back with a vengeance.

It’s always odd seeing stories about the Wraith, because it’s him but it’s not him. He imagines it must be what an actor feels like to see themselves on a screen, or a story about them printed in a magazine - them but distinctly not them. A role; a constructed persona; a distorted reflection. It stops anything from going to his head, and makes him fascinated in the stories about himself in a kind of disconnected, perverse way.

Granted, it does make things easier. Doesn’t make him want to talk about his opinion on himself, though.

Fiona hugs them again when they leave and says, “I really like Gus. I think he’s a good one.”

Ian offers a half smile and Lip snorts. “Whatever makes you happy, Fiona.”

Ian doesn’t like him but doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to wave as he leaves. He’s got too many fights at the moment - he has to learn to pick his battles.

 

* * *

 

It's a still evening. The sky stretches like a wide navy canvas above, glittering, the moon a smile's edge turned on its side. Mickey and Mandy arrive at the address five minutes early, glancing around, bewildered, because it's a restaurant and it's filled with people.

"D'you think ...?" Mandy says, and Mickey shakes his head.

"Nah." He points to the roof. "Bet you he's there." It'll be a test, Mickey thinks. A test for Mandy's current capabilities.

Mickey doesn’t count - he’s just an observer. For now, at least.

He walks to the outer left wall of the building and jumps to pull the ladder down. It clangs loudly, echoing off the empty alley, and Mickey's half-scared someone's gonna walk out the back of the restaurant and chase them away. Hoisting himself up, he offers and a hand to Mandy and they make their way up the narrow staircase.

The roof is wide and flat with nothing but an access door. It’s lit by the ambient glow from the surrounding buildings and the moon. The Wraith is already there - perched like a sentinel on the concrete barrier that runs the edge, fully costumed and completely still, like like he's ready to launch himself from the ledge at any moment.

He turns when they arrive; uncurls from his crouch, pulling himself to his full height. There's something almost military about the way he holds himself - tiny, judged movements, like he's hyper aware of his body and the space it occupies. It's ... hot.

Mickey’s disappointed to see that he’s still wearing the mask as he and Mandy walk slowly towards him.

The Wraith says nothing, just regards them carefully as he crosses his arms across his stomach and cradles his elbows in this palms. They stop a few feet away from him.

“Hi,” Mandy says, like she’s a little awestruck, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

“We’re still not fucking exceptions to the clown suit, then.”

The Wraith looks like he’s trying to raise his eyebrows under the mask, and he smirks, continuing to maintain that safe distance.

He looks at Mickey. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“She’s my sister,” Mickey says defensively. “Not leaving her alone with strange men.” What he’s not saying is that Mandy’s perfectly capable of looking after herself and that he’s mostly here because he’s curious as fuck.

“Pretty sure I’d end up protecting your ass instead, dickhead.” She turns towards the Wraith. “Couldn’t stop him from following me. Sorry.”

The Wraith shrugs, gaze flickering to Mickey before settling back intently on Mandy, his gaze liquid black and glimmering in the half-light. “You sure this is still what you want?”

“Yes,” Mandy says immediately, pulling her shoulders back.

The Wraith sighs in resignation and smooths his hair back with the flat of his palm. He begins to pace, and Mickey thinks that this is the least controlled Mickey’s ever seen him, except for when Mickey was bleeding out over the pavement.

Mickey pulls a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket as the Wraith pauses and rubs at his jaw.

“This isn’t …” the Wraith begins. Stops himself; starts again. “If you’re doing this because you want to be a ‘hero’, climb back down down that fire escape right now and don’t look back. What I do is … tough. Dangerous. Lonely. Every night I fight for my own life as well as the lives of others. It’s not like the movies, or comic books, and even though I’ve only been doing it for a few months I’ve already seen some horrendous things. You never lose that.” Taking a breath, he looks back up at Mandy. “You can try it. You can stop if it feels too much. This is as much ‘me’ as I’ll ever get, considering my history, my circumstances, but you have a choice.”

Admittedly the guy’s pretty captivating when he talks passionately - lots of hand movements, a great deal of physicality to accompany his words, and Mickey wonders if that’s his civilian persona bleeding through. Mickey still resists the urge to slow clap, though, because c’mon with the clichés.

Mandy seems to lap it up. “I want this,” she says. “I’m sure. I ...”

Mickey knows and understands her reasons, and that she’s unlikely to talk about them candidly with a near-stranger. He wants to help her in more ways than one. They’ve been a unit against the world for as long as he can remember now, and he knows he offered abstract support after the day at the docks. He made his decision then. Before he can think too much about it, though, and loses his nerve, he interrupts with, “I’ll do it.” He swallows. “I’m in, too.”

It’s absolutely not to do with the fact that Mickey’s curious to get to know the Wraith. That he has a body that looks like it’s been cut out of a Men’s Health magazine and photoshopped into life.

And who knows; maybe Mickey’ll work out a way to make some cash out of it.

Both Mandy and the Wraith turn to look at him. He shrugs. Takes another draw on the cigarette and breathes the smoke out of his nose. “You don’t need to give me the same speech, by the way, dude. I heard it the first time.” At their silence, he continues with, “What?”

The Wraith looks quietly pleased for some reason, Mickey thinks, under that mask. Mandy’s face splits into a wide grin. “I knew that’s why you followed me.”

“Sure. Whatever you want to think.” Mickey shrugs and raises his eyebrows. “Well, c’mon then, tough guy. What’ll we need?”

Frowning, the Wraith says, “You have to train first.”

“Train?”

“Yeah. You can’t just go out and fight crime or whatever without knowing how to do the fighting part.”

Mickey sighs very, very loudly. “The fuckin’ things I do for you, Mandy.” He shakes his head. “Look, Mandy did kickboxing in high school. I did a bit of boxing. We’re good.” Hell, growing up with Terry, knowing moves was the difference been a cut lip or a broken nose.

The Wraith shakes his head, this time. “No. You’ll need something more. Start by running - I can tell you now, it’s the thing you’ll do most, and your best offense is a good defense, you know? And enrol in some mixed martial arts classes - I like Judo and Aikido. You’ll need to be agile. I have the benefit of my ability to heal; you only have one body, and I won’t always be able to help you.” He rolls his neck and starts to stretch his arms. “I mean, I had basic military training and it wasn’t enough. We’ll work on power stuff together.”

Maybe this isn’t sounding like such a great idea after all.

“Gear?” Mandy says, looking even more enthusiastic.

“Everything can be purchased online and shipped to a private mailbox. Give me some cash, your measurements, and I’ll do it for you. You’ll need a utility belt, suitable shoes, and for you guys I’d suggest a bulletproof stealth vest to go under your suits. We’ll work out the spandex stuff later.”

“No fucking way are you getting me to dress like I’ve just walked out of a fucking Avenger’s movie or a lame-ass Halloween party,” Mickey says, angrily stomping out his cigarette butt.

“It’s mostly practical.”

“It’s fucking dumb, is what it is.”

“Just try spending an evening working in civilian clothes and you’ll understand why I wear it.”  
Mandy clears her throat. The Wraith looks vaguely sheepish; Mickey huffs and crosses his arms.

“I need to get going,” the Wraith says, pulling his cell from his utility belt. “I have to get some hours in before … well, yeah.” He stands straighter. “I think that’s it. Same time next week?”

Mandy looks reluctant to let him go, but she nods. “If we need to contact you?”

“Secret identity, remember?” He turns to Mickey. “You also can’t mess around in my head anymore, Mick. I learned how to stop you - thanks to Deadpool.” Grinning, he begins to walk backwards. Mickey swears and tries to reach out with his mind, but he’s immediately blocked. It’s like pressing his palms against a concrete wall.

“What the fuck?”

The Wraith laughs as he launches himself off the edge of the building, the sound filtering up as he falls.

“Hero, my ass,” Mickey says, and lights another cigarette. He’ll figure out a way around it.

The fucking Wraith won’t know what hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for sticking with it this long! everything heats up next chapter, i promise ;).


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